UD 


CRUZ 


BERTRAND   :^MITH 

"ACRES  OF  BOOKV 

UO.  PACIFIC  AVfNUE 

LONG  B?7A    H  2 

CA! 


PS 

354! 

xns 
MS 

922 


A  Minister  of  Grace 


BY  MARGARET  WIDDEMER 


AUTHOR  OF 

'I've  Married  Marjorie,"  "Why  Not?"   "The 

Wishing-Ring  Man,"  "You're 

Only  Young  Once/'  etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Harcourt,  Brace  &  Company 
Printed   in  U.   S.   A. 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,   BY 
HARCOURT,   BRACE  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


PRINTED    IN   TH«   U.  8.  A. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 3 

As  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 45 

WILD  WOODLAND 75 

A  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 101 

"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 135 

THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 169 

ADJUSTMENT 197 

THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 221 

POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 256 


To 

DR.  AND  MRS.  CHARLES  HOLLAND  KIDDER 
In  Memory  of  Long  Friendship 


A  MINISTER  OF  GRACE 

OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

"I  WOULDN'T  do  it,  Marion,"  said  Andrew  Blanton 
meditatively. 

"Wouldn't  do  what?"  demanded  his  sister-in-law. 
She  was  the  sister  of  his  young  wife,  long  dead  even 
in  those  days,  when  Marion's  son  Arden  was  a  child. 
But  people  who  had  even  a  shadow  of  relationship 
to  Dr.  Blanton  were  apt  to  cling  to  it. 

He  eyed  her,  unafraid;  which  was  an  achievement, 
for  stately  Mrs.  Garrison  possessed  a  combination  of 
quick  charm,  humor  and  conviction  which  made  her 
able  to  override  most  people  and  things.  She  was 
not  in  the  least  conscious  of  it,  be  it  said;  and,  being 
religious  as  passionately  as  she  was  everything  else, 
overrode  for  good  generally. 

"I  wouldn't  make  Arden  into  a  clergyman  until  he 
was — let  me  see — at  least  fifteen.  According  to  the 
best  medieval  authorities,  indeed,  which  believed,  as 
did  all  the  intelligentsia  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  be- 
ginning the  business  of  life  at  adolescence,  sixteen  was 
the  usual  age — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  quick  mingling  of 
laughter  and  petulance,  if  a  woman  of  her  swift  dig- 
nity could  be  called  petulant. 

"Oh,  you're  laughing  at  me,  with  your  rounded 
periods.  Of  .course  when  you  get  to  the  Middle  Ages 

3 


4  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

there's  nothing  we  poor  clergywomen  can  say  back. 
I  had  an  education  once,  but  Ladies'  Aid  Societies — 
besides,  it's  what  the  child  really  wants.  I  think  it 
would  have  been,  even  if  I  hadn't  given  him  to  God 
before  he  was  born.  I  haven't  influenced  him.  He 
know's  I'd  be  glad,  of  course.  But  he's  only  twelve. 
If  he  turns  to  any  other  profession  I — we — would  let 
him  go  willingly.  I  can't  honestly  say  gladly." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Andrew  Blanton,  with  his  little 
laugh,  looking  at  her  affectionately  over  his  spectacles, 
"how  many  things  even  the  best  of  women  can  say 
"honestly?" 

"I  speak  my  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Garrison,  "a  good 
deal  more  than  I  should  in  my  position,  I'm  afraid." 

"I  know — I  know!"  said  Andrew  Blanton,  with  an 
affectation  of  humorous  apprehension.  "To  me,  some- 
times, my  dear  Marion.  But  be  merciful  to-day  to 
an  elderly  gentleman,  and  content  with,  what  I  am 
told,  was  a  signal  victory  over  the  Senior  Warden's 
wife,  who  wanted  to  send  her  Mary  to  a  French  con- 
vent for  the  social  affiliations — " 

"She  had  no  right  to.  What  Roman  Catholic  would 
put  her  daughter  in  a  Protestant  finishing  school  for 
the  social  affiliations,  as  you  call  them?  But  I  only 
reasoned  with  her  till  she  saw  it." 

"You  don't  know  how  much  you  can  do  with 
people,  do  you,  Marion?  I  often  wonder,"  he  went  on, 
furtively  opening  a  volume  by  a  new  writer — it  was  a 
Chesterton  which  he  had  borrowed  of  her  husband — 
and  peeping  in,  "why  I  am  so  uncowed.  I  often  stay 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  5 

here  for  days  together.  Yet  I  may  say,"  he  ended 
in  triumph,  "that  except  in  matters  of  the  flesh,  such 
as  coming  to  meals  on  time,  I  have  never  submitted 
my  conscience  to  you  once!" 

"I  hope  no  one  ever  has!  But  wasn't  I  right 
about  the  convent?" 

"Of  course  you  were.  And  you  hypnotized  Mrs. 
Greening  into  momentary  nobility  of  character. 
Much  better  than  none,"  said  Dr.  Blanton  sincerely. 
"But  as  for  your  small  boy,  you  began  with  the 
assumption  that  God  wanted  him  for  one  of  His  min- 
isters before  he  was  born.  He's  not  really  had  his 
chance  to  escape.  .  .  .  Surely  you  have  heard  the 
story,  my  dear  Marion,  of  the  young  man  who  was 
so  certain  that  he  had  a  call  to  preach — but  to  whom 
his  Bishop  had  to  explain  that  it  must  have  been 
some  other  noise  he  heard?" 

"If  it  is  God's  will,  he'll  grow  up  to  be  a  clergy- 
man. If  it  isn't,  he  won't.  It's  the  best  and  noblest 
profession  in  the  world,"  said  his  mother  earnestly, 
smoothing  down  the  black  silk  which  only  her  regal 
slenderness  kept  from  overt  shabbiness.  She  was  a 
genuinely  high-minded  woman,  for  as  her  father  and 
grandfather  before  her  had  been  clergymen,  as  well 
as  her  husband  and  brother-in-law,  she  should  have 
known  exactly  what  she  was  talking  about;  and 
from  her  point  of  view  she  did.  She  would  have  said, 
if  you  asked  her,  that  she  counted  worldly  prosperity 
a  very  small  thing  compared  to  the  privilege  of  preach- 
ing Christ  and  him  crucified.  But  she  knew  nothing 


6  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

of  other  professions,  and,  without  knowing  it,  viewed 
from  a  little  rising  ground  all  the  other  people  in  the 
world,  as  being  made  for  the  benefit  and  ministra- 
tions of  her  caste.  She  loved  them,  of  course,  and 
wanted  to  do  all  she  could  for  their  souls  and  bodies. 
She  was  by  far  the  strongest  personality  in  her  house- 
hold, and  Arden  grew  up,  built  by  her  hands  as  she 
wished  him,  strong  though  he  was  himself. 

He  was,  at  manhood,  everything  a  mother  could 
have  wished,  though  not  in  the  least  a  prig.  There 
was  never  the  traditional  break-away  of  the  clergy- 
man's son;  the  Garrisons'  was  too  kindly  and  interest- 
ing a  household  for  that.  Arden  was  a  son  to  be 
proud  of  from  any  point  of  view;  tall,  handsome,  with 
a  gentle,  commanding  courtesy  which  won  people  even 
before  they  found  that  he  was  as  honorable  and 
simple-minded  as  he  was  passionately  religious.  He 
took  his  orders,  finally,  with  the  enthusiasm  and  devo- 
tion of  a  young  knight  of  long  ago.  And  being  what 
he  was,  young  (it  is  then  that  the  clergy  are  most 
marketable),  handsome,  gently  born  and  mannered, 
with  three  generations  of  Episcopal  clergy  and  their 
connections  behind  him,  he  got,  as  his  mother  said 
proudly,  a  better  parish  than  his  fathered  ever  had, 
after  the  first  curacy. 

His  mother  had  wished,  secretly,  that  he  could  have 
been  married  to  Elisabeth  Deering  before  he  went  to 
his  new  kingdom,  because  it  is  a  proverb  of  the 
clergy,  "build  a  church  or  marry  a  wife,  and  go."  A 
parish  is  a  jealous  bride,  and  doesn't  like  a  rival.  If 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  7 

your  wife  comes  when  you  do,  that's  another  thing. 
Elisabeth  was,  every  one  felt — perhaps  too  frankly — 
his  heaven  appointed  mate;  the  best,  the  sweetest, 
the  most  demurely  gay  of  tactful  and  hardworking 
bishop's  nieces.  She  was  a  little  bright  thing  with 
strength  and  determination  and  kindness  enough  to 
face  what  a  clergyman's  wife  must,  undaunted  as 
Mrs.  Garrison  herself  was  undaunted.  Arden's 
mother  knew  her  own  unbreakable  kind  when  she  saw 
it.  And  she  particularly  respected  Elisabeth  because 
the  girl,  unlike  most  of  the  women  of  the  clergy, 
never  even  said  what  she  thought  of  things  when  she 
was  alone  with  women  of  other  clergy.  Few  are  as 
brave  as  that.  And  she  was  pink  and  white  and 
goldy-blond — adorably  pretty.  It  was  supposed  that 
the  string  of  theological  students'  scalps  which  she 
possessed  would  have  gone  three  times  in  festoons 
across  her  looking-glass.  It  was  also  supposed  that 
she  might  marry  Arden  if  he  asked  her. 

He  did  not  ask  her.  He  did  not  want  to  marry 
yet;  he  was  only  twenty-six.  Of  course,  far  back  in 
his  mind  was  the  knowledge  that  some  day,  when  he 
was  older  and  had  got  around  to  settling  down,  she 
would  be  the  best  person  to  settle  down  with.  He  was 
mildly  pleased  to  know  that  in  his  new  charge  she 
would  be  intermittently  near  by,  for  Dr.  Blanton  and 
the  bishop  were  classmates  and  old  friends,  and  Elisa- 
beth visited  him  both  with  and  without  Bishop 
Brewer.  Indeed,  she  had  adopted  him  as  a  sort  of 
brevet  uncle.  There  was  a  distant  connection  of 


8  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

some  sort.  He  would  see  them  all  soon,  he  knew. 
Clergymen,  of  course,  cannot  spend  week-ends  with 
friends ;  but  he  was  pledged  to  a  midweek  visit  as  soon 
as  he  could  manage  it. 

The  new  parish  was  a  charming  if  fashionable  spot 
at  the  lower  end  of  Pennsylvania.  They  gave  him  a 
small  but  excellent  car,  because  the  place  was  prin- 
cipally estates,  except  for  a  reach  of  village  inhabited 
by  the  poor  and  needy,  the  druggist  and  the  post- 
office.  The  druggist  was  good,  but  the  poor  and 
needy  were  not;  they  were  the  dregs  too  often  found 
in  country  places  where  every  one  has  gone  away  ex- 
cept those  without  enough  character. 

The  parish  also  gave  Arden  a  delightful  little  rec- 
tory, exquisitely  furnished  anew  by  the  women  of  the 
parish;  indeed,  one  or  two  of  the  vestry  made  half- 
humorous  apology  for  its  artistic  atmosphere,  the 
night  they  gave  Arden  his  reception  in  it.  You 
couldn't  put  your  feet  up,  said  the  Senior  Warden, 
a  benevolent  though  predatory  old  millionaire  with  a 
stubby  white  mustache  and  a  fatherly  way.  His 
daughter  Nancy  was  too  fond  of  art  effects  for  a 
man  to  be  able  to  drop  ashes  in  comfort  where  her 
decorating  hand  had  passed. 

He  chuckled,  and  his  wife,  it  seemed  to  Arden, 
looked  a  little  watchful.  He  remembered  now  having 
been  told  that  Mr.  Whitall  had  been  of  the  people, 
with  a  late-married  wife  who  wasn't. 

When,  a  moment  later,  Arden  saw  Nancy  Whitall, 
he  realized  that  such  a  girl  had  a  right,  if  she  wanted 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  9 

to,  to  decorate  the  place  with  cigar-band  plates,  or 
tie  up  all  the  furniture  with  pink  ribbons.  Some- 
thing happened  to  him  when  he  saw  her  that  made 
him  shiver  all  over  and  catch  his  breath  dizzily  for 
a  moment.  She  seemed  to  concern  him  more  in- 
tensely than  anything  he  had  ever  seen. 

She  was  not  unusually  pretty;  nothing  like  as 
pretty,  indeed,  as  little  Elisabeth.  She  was  tanned 
deeply,  as  if  by  much  outdoor  life,  and  her  features 
were  a  little  irregular.  There  was  a  smooth,  adjusted 
perfection  like  her  mother's  about  everything  she  said 
and  did,  combining  curiously  with  a  short-phrased, 
half  insolent  naturalness  which  he  thought  might  be 
the  mark  of  her  father  in  her.  She  had  the  certain- 
ty and  amused  friendliness  of  a  girl  who,  pleasant 
and  kind  enough,  had  never  had  to  remember  to  please 
or  fear  any  one  in  her  life.  It  was  not  a  manner  he 
knew.  Even  his  mother,  power  that  she  was,  never 
for  a  moment  forgot  the  necessity  of  watching  and 
adjusting  herself  to  the  flock. 

Nancy  Whitall  made  Arden  feel  realizingly  for  the 
first  time  that  there  were  other  worlds  of  people,  as 
desirable  to  inhabit  as  his  own.  He  had  been  taught 
to  consider,  with  a  certain  pride,  that  existence  con- 
sisted of  the  clergy — and  others.  This  girl  made  him 
see  a  new  land,  with  quite  as  wonderful  people  in  it. 
And  her  first  words  to  him,  curiously  enough,  showed 
that  she  too  felt  their  meeting  to  be  an  adventure  in 
strange  countries  for  them  both. 

"You're  very  like  a  clergyman,"  she  said,  looking 


io  OF  THE  CLAN  'OF  GOD 

at  him  with  a  provocative  smile,  "but  you  don't  put  it 
on.  It's  just  in  you." 

For  the  moment  he  had  a  little  pricking  sense  of 
inferiority. 

"Naturally.  I  am  one,  you  know,"  he  said,  the 
more  proudly  because  of  the  prick. 

"I  like  it.  I  like  your  being  a  new  kind  of  man. 
And — my  nurse  used  to  say  an  old  proverb, 

"The  black  coat  and  the  red 
Turn  a  poor  woman's  head!" 

"Why,  look  at  these  ramping  crowds  who  wish  I'd 
go  away!" 

She  indicated  the  pretty  groups  of  chattering 
women,  obviously  waiting  for  a  chance  to  make  a  fuss 
over  the  new  clergyman. 

"Good-by  for  awhile,"  she  said,  and  obliterated 
herself  in  the  crowd  so  swiftly  that  it  was  like  a 
vanishing.  Other  women  took  her  place,  as  pretty 
and  interesting  and  charming  mannered,  but  Arden 
spoke  to  them  mechanically.  It  took  all  his  equip- 
ment of  charm  and  courtesy  and  friendliness  to  make 
him  seem  to  care  what  any  one  else  said  or  did  for 
the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Because  of  Nancy's  importance  to  him,  what  she 
had  said  rankled.  The  truth  was,  he  had  been  a 
little  tired  of  shop,  though  he  did  not  know  it;  and 
this  new  world  of  charming,  easy-mannered  people, 
who  set  him  so  at  ease  and  made  him  feel  so  com- 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  n 

fortable  and  happy,  was  very  delightful  to  him.  He 
began  to  be  glad  that  he  was  not  too  old  to  become 
narrowed  and  professionalized. 

And  when  he  spent  his  promised  midweek  with  Dr. 
Blanton,  summoned  when  Bishop  Brewer  was  there,  it 
all  seemed  a  little  dim  and  musty.  There  was  the 
well-known  kind  of  talk;  a  change  in  the  prayer- 
book  as  a  matter  of  national  importance;  a  new 
hymn  of  the  Bishop's  sister  which  might,  with  luck, 
get  into  the  next  revision  of  the  Hymnal;  a  matter 
of  doctrine  over  which  every  one  at  table  grew  as  im- 
passioned as  his  own  flock  did  over  world-politics  .  .  . 
it  was  all  so  old!  Even  the  way  little  Elisabeth 
guarded  her  lips  from  what  his  mother  called  "unchar- 
itable talk,"  and  conscientiously  spoke  well  of  every 
one,  (anything  else  is  unsafe  as  well  as  unkind,  for 
minister-folk)  wore  on  him.  So  did  the  fact  that  her 
pretty  fair  hair  was  knotted  at  the  wrong  angle. 
(Of  course  she  wouldn't  dare  make  talk  by  bobbing 
it.)  And  her  shoes  were  the  wrong  kind  to  go  with 
the  pink  muslin  she  wore  for  a  dinner  frock.  .  .  . 

The  truth  was,  he  was  restive  to  get  back  to  Nancy 
Whitall's  country,  and  everything  she  stood  for  was 
right,  and  everything  that  she  did  not  was  a  little 
annoying  to  him.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  land  that  he 
had  found,  and  the  old  one  was  so  old  I 

The  parish  adored  him  with  the  ardor  of  a  parish's 
first  six  months;  that  cloudless  and  joyful  time  which 
cynical  clergywomen  know  as  "the  honeymoon."  He 
stayed  close  to  it,  and  adored  it—and  Nancy — back. 


12  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

Occasionally  he  went  over  to  see  Dr.  Blanton,  and 
semi-occasionally  he  ran  into  Elisabeth.  He  was,  he 
assured  himself,  as  fond  of  them  both  as  ever.  Elisa- 
beth's schooling,  like  his  own,  included  a  trained 
cheerfulness  and  cordiality  which  did  not  show  her 
feelings.  He  found  her  just  the  same  as  ever;  even 
on  her  flying  visits  accomplishing  a  vast  amount  of 
parish  work  with  her  usual  sweet  gaiety,  and  the 
pretty  compliments  to  all  and  sundry  which  were  a 
part  of  her  ways.  If,  when  they  talked,  her  enthu- 
siasm over  her  Sunday-school  scholars  at  home,  and 
Americanization  meetings,  was  sometimes  a  little  hec- 
tic and  forced,  nobody  noticed  it,  least  of  all  Arden, 
in  love  with  Nancy  and  his  own  parish.  Nancy  was 
giving  him  points  on  riding,  his  motor  was  a  new  and 
beloved  toy,  and  the  parish  moved  under  his  hand  like 
a  well-trained,  adoring  pet  animal. 

It  was  in  an  unimportant  chink  of  his  new  life, 
thrilled  as  it  was  with  the  double  joy  of  being  in  love 
and  being  successful,  that  he  had  the  sexton  dis- 
charged. That  functionary  had  never  fitted  his  task 
or  his  surroundings  well.  He  had  been  taken  on  by 
Arden's  mistakenly  charitable  predecessor  because  he 
needed  a  job,  and  was  too  well  known  in  the  village 
to  get  any.  The  new  rector,  desirous  of  efficiency, 
found  him  an  unpleasant,  soiled  young  man  who  never 
dusted  the  backs  of  the  pews.  The  vestry,  told  about 
it,  agreed  with  conviction  that  he  was  not  the  man 
for  the  place,  and  replaced  him  immediately. 

When  notified  of  his  fall  the  ex-sexton  growled  more 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  13 

disagreeably  than  ever.  He'd  git  even  with  that 
there  parson,  he  said  with  curses.  He  departed,  em- 
bittered to  the  last  degree,  to  loaf  in  the  bosom  of  his 
family. 

Now  that  large  body  which  we  still,  in  America, 
feel  impolite  when  calling  the  lowest  classes,  contains 
the  only  true  romanticists  left  us.  It  is  no  more  than 
natural.  They  live  close  to  the  primal  realities  which 
every  thousand  on  one's  income  puts  farther  away; 
hunger,  cold,  hate,  anger,  terror,  passion,  revenge. 
They  reckon  with  them,  as  we  do  not — they  take  them 
seriously.  Melodrama,  hushed  away  from  us,  has 
taken  refuge  with  these  simpler  children,  who  believe 
in  it  because  they  live  it.  It  is  in  the  movies  they 
see,  the  newspapers  they  read,  the  roomers  above 
them.  .  .  .  They  can  no  more  doubt  life  to  be  the 
sort  of  thing  it  was  for  the  Duchess  of  Malfi  than 
you  or  I  can  doubt  our  pleasant  monotonies.  Of 
course,  when  wronged,  you  scheme  for  revenge  if 
you  can  get  away  with  it.  Didn't  that  girl  that  roomed 
with  the  Hojeks.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  happens. 

The  curious  thing — curious  from  our  viewpoint — is 
that  it  does  happen.  But  we  scarcely  believe  it,  be- 
cause it  is  not  in  our  book  of  the  rules,  even  when 
it  drips  over  from  their  lives  to  ours. 

To  Bill  Parkerman,  ex-sexton,  it  was  quite  a  nor- 
mal, natural  thing  to  plan  for  "gittin'  even  with  that 
there  parson."  He  consulted  his  aged  mother  about 
it,  and  she  agreed  with  him  that  it  was  the  self- 
respecting  thing  to  do.  They  hoped  optimistically 


14  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

not  only  for  the  revenge,  but  a  little  money  on  the 
side. 

The  Parkermans  had  not  the  best  of  reputations 
even  in  their  own  set;  which  was  so  distant  from  all 
other  visible  sets  that  neither  Garrison  nor  any  of 
his  friends  and  acquaintances — except  the  Chief  of 
Police,  whom  he  spoke  to  cordially  when  they  met — 
realized  it  was  anywhere.  There  had  been  no  Park- 
erman  pere — or  peres,  for  Bill,  his  sixteen-year-old 
sister  Leora,  his  eighteen-year-old  sister  Valencia,  and 
his  twenty-year-old  married  brother  Alfred,  were  all 
"halves."  V'lencia  was  unmarried  and  gone,  living 
in  a  guilty  splendor  which  included  a  beautiful  green 
plush  mission  set  and  a  player-piano,  deeply  envied  by 
all.  There  was  not  so  much  chance  of  Leora's  being 
offered  as  beautiful  a  life,  because  she  had  epilepsy 
or  something  like  it.  Alfred  was  a  small,  sallow  lad 
who  suggested  the  evils  of  excessive  cigarettes  almost 
to  the  point  of  being  a  Tract.  It  was,  altogether,  a 
wicked  and  abandoned  family  of  the  kind  only  be- 
lieved in  by  pessimists,  police  officials  and  people 
who  write  eugenic  monographs.  And  they  do  not 
really  want  to.  They  find  they  have  to. 

Arden  Garrison,  who  was  gentle,  friendly-hearted, 
and  a  little  too  much  inclined  to  think  that  God  didn't 
intend  him  to  have  troubles,  was  certainly  far  from 
thinking  the  Parkermans  to  be  as  far  from  the  normal 
as  they  were.  They  were — no  eugenist  could  have 
done  more  than  justice  to  them,  their  ancestors  be- 
fore them  and  unquestionably  their  abundant  offspring 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  15 

after  them.  But  what  was  a  sexton  more  or  less, 
anyway,  with  Nancy  Whitall  in  the  foreground  of  a 
young  man's  mind?  Sextons  were  unimportant  items 
of  business — Nancy  was  a  glowing-  fairy-tale. 

Arden  was  nevertheless  a  faithful  parish  priest,  and 
when  old  Mrs.  Parkerman  offered  an  authentic  case 
of  rheumatism  and  desired  prayers,  he  went  like  a 
shot,  calling  off  golf  with  the  second  most  important 
parishioner. 

She  may  have  really  wanted  the  prayers.  Some 
people  of  her  kind  consider  them  a  better  curative 
agent  than  a  horse-chestnut  in  the  pocket,  and  in- 
variably try  the  ministrations  of  the  nearest  clergy- 
man before  calling  in  the  more  expensive  services  of 
a  doctor.  She  got  the  prayers,  at  least.  Arden  knelt 
in  the  little  dirty  house,  beside  the  unwashed  bed- 
clothes, and,  with  Leora  kneeling  beside  him  and  Bill 
at  the  rocker,  prayed  earnestly  and  fervently.  He 
afterward  looked  the  place  over  with  the  trained  eye 
of  his  profession,  and  decided  just  what  it  needed  in  the 
way  of  money  and  food,  and  that  the  parish  nurse 
should  be  detailed  on  the  case.  He  hoped  that  she 
could  coax  them  to  a  little  cleanliness,  especially 
Leora,  who  was  young  enough  to  have  possibilities 
of  betterment.  She  had  a  loose-lipped  prettiness  of 
big  eyes  and  long  lines,  and  the  too-transparent  rose 
and  white  coloring  which  looks  so  admirable  to  all 
but  doctors.  Arden  suggested  to  her  very  gently 
that  she  wash  things,  including  her  hands  and  face,  a 
little.  She  looked  at  him  submissively  from  under 


16  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

her  long  lashes  and  promised  everything  with  a  soft 
and  fluent  sweetness. 

"Leory  can't  work,"  croaked  the  old  woman  on  the 
bed.  "It  brings  on  her  havin'  fits,  she  says." 

Leora  flashed  a  vicious  glance  at  her  mother.  She 
hated  references  to  her  ailment,  which  she  preferred 
to  call  to  herself  her  fainting-spells.  But  that  she 
couldn't  work  she  quite  agreed.  They  both  begged 
him  to  come  again  and  pray. 

"I  feel  lots  better  already,"  said  Mrs.  Parkerman 
quite  sincerely. 

Arden  noted  in  his  little  book  the  particulars  of 
the  case,  and  went  away,  drawing  a  quick  breath  of 
relief  as  he  stepped  out  into  the  sunshine.  His  little 
car  whirled  him  toward  the  Country  Club.  He  might 
be  in  time  for  a  round  of  golf  after  all,  if  he  hurried 
— if  not  with  the  second  most  influential  parishioner, 
perhaps  with  Nancy.  He  dwelt  in  his  mind  on  the 
thought  of  her,  slim  and  carelessly  gay  in  her  little 
assured,  defiant  way,  with  that  perfection  of  groom- 
ing as  to  her  hands  and  her  flare  of  dusky,  Florentine- 
cut  hair,  which  only  women  with  maids  attain.  Elisa- 
beth's hair  came  into  his  mind  in  contrast,  and  he 
tried  to  think  he  was  remembering  it  affectionately. 
It  was  sunny  and  pretty,  all  little  wisps  and  ringlets. 
She  did  it  herself,  of  course.  Sometimes  the  pins 
dropped  out  and  had  to  be  tucked  back.  He  won- 
dered if  he  couldn't  speak  to  her  about  doing  it  differ- 
ently when  he  saw  her  next,  by  way  of  improving 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  17 

her  a  little.  Elisabeth  and  he  were  such  old  friends, 
surely  she  wouldn't  mind.  .  .  . 

And  then  he  forgot  Elisabeth,  for  there,  sure  enough, 
on  the  Country  Club  porch,  stood  Nancy.  She  had 
on  a  scarlet  hat  and  sweater;  she  seemed  all  of  a 
piece  with  the  Spring  sunshine  and  the  blowing  wind 
and  the  green  of  the  links.  She  was  laughing  with 
another  man.  Arden's  heart  gave  a  spring,  half  de- 
light at  seeing  her,  half  annoyance  that  there  should 
be  any  other  man  in  the  world  who  spoke  to  her. 
He  hurried  in,  and  promptly  took  measures  that  this 
particular  man  shouldn't,  anyway.  With  his  charm- 
ing touch  of  gentle  authority  he  detached  Nancy  with 
a  noiseless  quickness  which  made  her  look  at  him 
with  frank  admiration. 

"I  like  that!"  she  told  him  coolly.  "I  like  people 
who  walk  over  other  people  to  get  what  they  want. 
I  think  it  shows  that  you  really  value  a — a  thing.  Is 
that  the  way  being  four  generations  of  clergymen 
makes  you  act?" 

He  flushed  a  little  at  her  mockery,  elated  neverthe- 
less at  what  she  said. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  walk  over  any  one,"  he  explained 
gently.  "I  didn't  think  about  anything  but  talking 
to  you.  Let's  go  round  once,  if  you  haven't  been  too 
often.  Will  you?" 

She  nodded,  and  he  hurried  off  to  change.  He  saw 
her  recaptured  by  the  other  man,  this  time  without 
a  pang.  It  was  only  till  he  was  ready  for  her. 


x8  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

He  told  her,  incidentally,  about  the  Parkermans, 
as  much  as  it  was  decent  for  her  to  know,  while 
they  went  over  the  turf  together  in  the  sunshiny 
spring  wind. 

"Bill  promised  to  'get'  me  when  I  had  the  vestry 
discharge  him,"  he  told  her  amusedly.  "But  I've 
made  friends  with  him,  I  think.  They  seem  to  bear 
no  malice  at  all.  Indeed,  the  poor  little  girl  with  the 
epilepsy  seemed  very  grateful  for  what  I  could  do 
for  the  mother.  Poor  child,  it's  a  pity  about  her; 
she's  such  a  pretty,  graceful  kid." 

"Isn't  there  something  I  can  do?  I  think  it's  a 
thrilling  case!"  was  Nancy's  reaction  to  the  tale. 

But  he  shook  his  head.  It  was  like  her  loveliness 
to  care,  but  he  did  not  want  her  in  contact  with  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  He  would  have  taken  Elisabeth, 
or  his  own  little  sister,  to  help  such  people,  if  need 
had  arisen;  they  were  born  to  such  ministrations. 
But  he  wanted  Nancy,  fresh  and  lovely  and  unmarked, 
to  stay  as  she  was.  Those  gay,  piquing  insolences,  so 
different  from  the  too  thoughtful  courtesy  of  the  wo- 
menfolk he  knew  .  .  .  they  were  a  child's  ways. 
They  might  be  changed — something  might  be  changed 
— by  the  contact  with  Leora's  atmosphere. 

He  turned  the  subject  to  Nancy  herself.  He  wanted 
to  hear  about  the  things  that  had  made  her  Nancy. 
The  hunting  in  England,  the  wonderful  excitements 
of  her  winter  in  New  York,  the  schooling  in  France 
— he  drew  her  out  about  all  of  it,  delighting  in  the 
sweep  of  her  gaiety,  and  even  in  the  young  ruthless- 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  19 

ness  that  showed  through  her  tales  of  pleasure  and 
conquest.  He  talked  of  himself,  too.  Each  was 
exploring  a  new  country  with  delight. 

He  walked  all  through  his  little  jewel  of  a  rectory 
that  night  late — he  had  dined  out,  as  he  did  most 
evenings — seeing  Nancy  in  its  setting;  Nancy,  excit- 
ingly incongruous,  miraculously  keeping  her  present 
graces,  and  yet  the  perfect  rector's  wife.  His  cheeks 
burned  like  a  girl's  at  his  dream. 

"Dear  Lord,"  he  prayed  under  his  breath,  "grant 
Thy  blessing  on  this  hope  I  am  daring  to  hold. 
Make  my  road  the  right  one.  Guide  me,  O  Lord, 
but  give  me,  if  it  please  Thee,  this  happiness." 

His  prayer  slipped  quite  naturally  into  the  beauti- 
ful phraseology  of  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer;  but 
it  was  none  the  less  sincere  and  passionate  for  that. 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  telephone  call.  It  was 
Bill  Parkerman,  his  rough  voice  as  smooth  and  polite 
as  the  Wolf's  in  the  fairy  tale  after  it  had  been 
smoothed  down  by  broken  glass:  the  voice  of  the 
days  of  undusted  pew-backs  and  concealing  assur- 
ances of  devotion. 

"Mommer  says  would  you  come  pray  wit'  her  to- 
morrer.  You  helped  her  a  lot  to-day,  but  she  feels 
somepin'  fierce  to-night." 

Arden  promised,  of  course,  and  not  only  that,  but 
he  called  up  the  parish  nurse  next  morning  and  told 
her  that  he  had  a  particular  interest  in  the  case.  Was 
it  not  the  first  bit  of  parish  work  he  had  shared  with 
Nancy? 


20  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

Mrs.  Parkerman  continued  to  find  that  her  soul 
and  her  rheumatism  needed  Arden's  society.  She 
was  very  insistent  on  the  prayers,  and  Arden  became 
quite  used  to  kneeling  there  twice  or  three  times 
a  week,  Leora  kneeling  devoutly  beside  him.  By 
the  second  or  third  seance  more  of  the  family  ap- 
peared; the  opulently  unmarried  V'lencia,  and  later 
Alfred's  sixteen-year-old  wife,  draggled,  over-rouged 
and  birdlike,  kneeling  a  bit  self-consciously,  and  eye- 
ing him  queerly  under  her  exaggerated  sports-hat.  He 
liked  her  the  best  of  the  lot;  she  seemed  such  a  wist- 
ful bit  of  a  thing  in  spite  of  her  cheapness,  and  he  had 
one  or  two  scraps  of  talk  with  her.  She  seemed  to 
waver  between  distrust  and  another  feeling  he  could 
not  make  out — almost  sympathy.  He  tried  to  get  her 
to  come  to  one  of  the  girls7  Bible-classes,  but  without 
success.  He  was  not  discouraged;  that  the  clan  gath- 
ered for  prayers  at  all  seemed  to  him  a  good  sign. 

It  was  the  eighth  time  he  visited  them  that  they 
sprang  the  trap.  (It  sounds  like  rank  melodrama, 
when  you  come  to  tell  it.  But  melodrama  was  prac- 
tically all  there  was  in  the  limited  Parkerman  reper- 
toire.) Arden  was  kneeling,  as  usual,  with  Leora  be- 
side him  sharing  his  prayerbook,  open  at  the  Visita- 
tion of  the  Sick. 

"O  Lord,"  he  was  saying,  "look  down  from  heaven, 
visit  and  relieve  this  thy  servant — " 

His  head  was  bowed  and  his  eyes  closed,  for  nat- 
urally he  knew  the  service  by  heart.  He  never  went 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  21 

any  further  with  that  prayer  in  that  house.  Leora 
gave  a  moan  and  dropped  against  him,  both  pretty, 
dirty  hands  groping  for  his,  and  clutching  his  arm  as 
she  fell.  He  caught  her,  rose  with  her  in  his  arms, 
and  looked  about  for  somewhere  to  put  her. 

"Here — here's  her  room,"  said  the  little  sister-in- 
law  with  a  choke  of  excitement  in  her  voice. 

She  flung  open  the  door  into  a  gaudily  untidy  little 
box,  and  Arden  laid  the  girl  gently  down  on  a  littered 
cot  in  the  corner.  The  dirty,  slender  hands  were 
strong.  She  clung  as  he  bent  to  lower  her,  and,  taking 
him  unawares,  pulled  his  face  down  and  kissed  it  fev- 
erishly. Even  then  no  idea  of  what  it  was  all  about 
came  to  Arden;  not  until  he  heard  Bill  Parkerman's 
raucous  voice  in  the  doorway. 

"So  this  is  the  sort  o'  thing  parsons  pull,  after  firm' 
a  man  fer  nothin'  at  all!"  was  the  beginning  of  what 
he  said;  the  rest  is  too  evil  to  put  down. 

Arden,  pulling  himself  from  Leora's  grasp,  stared 
at  the  crew  bewildered.  They  were  all  crowding  in 
through  the  door,  the  whole  infamous  tribe;  Alfred, 
dingy  and  furtive  even  in  this  great  scene  of  defend- 
ing a  sister's  honor;  Bill,  heavy-shouldered,  brutal, 
uglily  triumphant,  a  bit  too  much  like  a  stage  burglar 
to  be  convincing;  V'lencia,  tawdry  and  big,  and  Hazel, 
the  sister-in-law,  tawdry  and  little.  Even  the  old 
mother  had  hobbled  over,  though  her  rheumatism  was 
one  of  the  few  genuine  things  she  owned,  and  stood 
peering  between  the  girls'  elaborate  heads  in  her  dirty 


22  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

shaker-flannel  nightgown.  Arden  had  never  known 
that  such  scenes  existed  in  real  life. 

The  gist  of  what  they  yelled  at  him  was  that  they 
would  disgrace  him  for  life;  unless  he  might  possibly 
wish  to  pay  them  so  much  that  their  wounded  feelings 
might  be  forgotten  in  the  lap  of  luxury.  Or  if  he  in- 
sisted he  might  marry  Leora — though  they  were  not 
sure  that  they  would  deign.  The  old  mother  was 
shrillest,  with  a  better  vocabulary  of  vileness  than 
the  young  people;  though  Bill  made  up  for  lack  of 
variety  by  forceful  repetition.  V'lencia,  buxom  and 
assured  in  conscious  prosperity,  burst  in  at  any  chink 
left  by  her  relatives.  The  little  sister-in-law,  newer 
to  the  family  customs,  did  little  but  stare,  and  affirm 
violently  when  appealed  to.  ...  ("You  seen  it  comin' 
a  long  time,  ain't  you,  Hazel?  Leory  told  you,  didn't 
she,  V'lency?"  on  the  old  mother's  part.) 

Arden  broke  from  the  pack  at  last,  so  glad  to  get 
out  into  the  air,  and  have  his  ears  rested  from  the 
aching  impact  of  the  shrieked  and  shouted  obscenities 
that  he  was  almost  happy  in  the  mere  silence  and  fresh- 
ness of  the  drive  home. 

The  first  thing,  he  knew,  was  to  go  to  his  vestry 
about  it,  the  second  was  to  get  in  touch  with  the 
Bishop.  There  was  a  chance  that  the  Parkermans 
might  not  mean  the  worst,  but  it  was  too  slight  to 
depend  on.  The  vestry,  if  it  was  merciful  and  wise, 
would  not  make  it  public.  He  knew  the  Bishop 
would  not.  And  his  mother,  stern,  infinitely  loving 
prophetess  in  Israel  that  she  was  beneath  her  gaiety 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  23 

— his  little  sister,  his  kind  old  stately  father,  inno- 
cently vain  of  his  son;  Elisabeth,  his  clergyman 
uncles — they  would  all  have  to  know — they  would  all 
be  stabbed  and  stained.  From  the  very  thought  of 
Nancy  knowing  he  winced  away.  Surely  if  he  prayed 
very  hard  God  would  spare  him  that.  Into  that  gay, 
childishly  daring  young  heart  surely  such  morbid  hor- 
rors had  never  come. 

The  vestry  did  as  well  as  could  be  expected.  They 
were  not  inclined  to  publicity  unless  the  worst  came 
to  the  worst.  One  or  two  of  them  were  a  little 
dubious.  .  .  . 

"It's  a  serious  charge — a  serious  charge,  Mr.  Garri- 
son," said  the  fat  Junior  Warden,  Far r ell,  whom 
Arden  had  never  much  liked,  because  he  knew  him 
not  to  be  a  straight-living  man.  But  old  Whitall,  in 
his  brusk,  impersonal  way,  encouraged  Arden  in  a 
brief  sentence  or  so.  He,  like  the  Bishop,  his  friend, 
had  a  personal  fondness  for  Arden.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  boy  which  called  out  a  feeling  of  father- 
hood in  kind  old  men. 

Seeing  the  Bishop  was  easier.  Dr.  Blanton  went 
with  him,  by  his  own  suggestion.  Somehow  the  trip 
with  Uncle  Andrew,  with  his  amused  leisureliness  and 
his  attitude  that  excerpts  (to  be  read  aloud)  from 
essayists  of  a  bygone  day  were  much  more  important 
than  the  most  exciting  happening  of  the  present,  was 
quieting. 

You  could  almost  believe  that  the  Parkermans  and 
their  works  were  a  wild  tale  from  some  inferior  news- 


24  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

paper,  while  Uncle  Andrew  held  forth  from  Alexander 
Smith  at  unhurried  length. 

"It's  not  the  end  of  the  world,  my  boy,"  he  said. 
"From  what  I  can  make  out  your  friends  the  Parker- 
mans  are  a  pest  to  the  community;  ought  to  be  in  in- 
stitutions, of  course,  every  one  of  'em.  The  world,  I 
hope,  will  come  to  that  sort  of  thing  in  time.  But — 
you  must  be  prepared  for  the  fact  that  it's  an  artless 
world,  and  that  the  worst  trouble  you'll  have,  if  it 
comes  out,  will  be  in  making  folks  believe  in  conspir- 
acies off  the  stage.  Even  the  German  war  didn't  suc- 
ceed in  making  some  folks  believe  that  there  isn't  a 
lot  to  be  said  on  both  sides  of  everything;  it  makes 
them  feel  so  high-minded  and  charitable  to  speak 
well  of  the  devil.  But  don't  worry  over  it,  my  son; 
I've  seen  worse  things  than  this  come  out  right." 

The  Bishop  was  comforting,  too,  though  none  knew 
better  than  the  two  old  clergyman  the  tight-rope  a 
clergyman's  name,  more  fragile  than  a  woman's,  must 
walk.  There  had  been  times  in  the  Bishop's  young 
days  when  it  took  all  his  own  caution,  combined  with 
the  resources  of  a  clever  and  resolute  wife,  to  keep 
the  wives  of  leading  parishioners  in  a  safe  frame  of 
mind.  He  and  Dr.  Blanton  recalled  a  couple  of  these 
tales  for  Arden's  comfort. 

"But  Alice  and  Jim  weathered  them  all,"  added 
Uncle  Andrew  with  a  twinkle,  "and  so  will  you,  boy." 

"I  didn't  need  to  have  your  mother  write  me  to 
know  it's  an  obvious  plot,"  added  the  Bishop.  "But 
they  ought  to  have  had  more  sense  than  to  think  they 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  25 

could  get  satisfactory  blackmail  from  a  clergyman; 
all  the  world  knows  we  never  have  any  money!" 

"There's  a  girl — "  Arden  blurted  out  before  he 
thought. 

"And  she  has  money?"  inferred  the  Bishop 
shrewdly.  His  shrewdness  had  never  extended  to 
connecting  Arden  with  his  Elisabeth,  whom  he  was 
none  too  anxious  to  lose.  He  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  for  Arden  to  marry  a  nice  girl  with  money. 

"Yes;  that's  why  I  haven't  said  anything  definite 
to  her,"  Arden  admitted.  "Of  course  now  I  can't. 
The  Parkermans  may  have  known  I  liked  her — " 

"Of  course  they  have,"  said  the  Bishop.  "That's 
the  answer.  Well,  lad,  go  through  it  as  bravely  as 
you  can.  Every  one's  back  of  you.  And  it  mayn't 
come  to  anything,  as  Andrew  says." 

That  night  (they  were  staying  the  night)  he  had 
a  little  talk  apart  with  Elisabeth.  She  caught  his 
hand  impulsively,  as  they  walked  up  and  down  the 
verandah.  The  old  men  were  laughing  over  some 
stories  of  old  days  in  the  house.  They  could  see  the 
kindly  old  heads  leaning  to  one  another  through  the 
window.  They  seemed  very  old  and  callous  suddenly, 
and  he  was  transiently  drawn  to  Elisabeth;  after  all 
she  was  young  too. 

"I've  heard  about  it  all,"  she  said,  her  voice  shaken 
out  of  a  little  of  its  calm  sweetness.  "It's  horrible. 
Uncle  Andrew  told  me  all  about  it  while  you  were 
upstairs.  Oh,  Arden,  isn't  there  anything  I  can  do 
to  help?  He  said  he  thought  I  could." 


26  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

Just  one  of  those  foolish  things  Uncle  Andrew 
mooned  into  doing.  But  after  all  she  had  had  to 
know. 

"No,"  he  said,  "of  course  not.  Only  believe  in  me," 
he  added,  snatching  at  her  affection,  unconsciously, 
as  a  shield  to  his  self-respect.  And  he  judged  Nancy 
by  her,  a  little,  too. 

"Oh,  that!"  said  Elisabeth,  laughing  as  if  the  thing 
were  ridiculous.  "You  know  I  believe  in  you  ...  in 
every  way." 

"But  supposing  they  could  seem  to  prove  I  did  it?" 
he  asked,  unheeding  the  catch  of  passion  in  her 
voice  in  his  absorption  in  himself  and  Nancy.  He 
put  her  in  Nancy's  place.  Nancy  might  hear.  Better 
men  than  he  had  been  proved  guilty  when  they  were 
innocent. 

Elisabeth's  little  pink  and  white  face  sobered. 

"If  you  really  did  it,  of  course  you  would  be  a  very 
wicked  man.  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  want  to  see 
you  again.  ...  But  nothing  any  one  could  say  would 
make  me  believe  you  were.  I  know  better — that's 
all.  .  .  ."  But  Nancy  was  so  unlessoned  in  life.  Elisa- 
beth, from  her  position,  knew  more  of  human  nature, 
of  wickedness  and  injustice  and  evil,  than  Nancy  had 
ever  needed  to  know.  Sometimes  too  great  innocence 
is  so  shocked  by  its  first  facing  of  evil  as  to  believe 
it  helplessly.  ...  He  lost  himself  so  deep  in  thought 
of  what  Nancy  might  think  as  to  scarcely  hear  Elisa- 
beth, asking  him  questions  in  her  swift,  sweet  childish 
voice  that  was  so  efficient.  She  questioned  him  closely 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  27 

about  the  Parkermans,  Valencia,  Hazel,  Alfred,  the 
old  mother,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  think  out  some- 
thing. Was  she  trying  to  sift  the  evidence  already? 

"Valencia,"  she  said  musingly;  "she  sounds  pretty 
hardened.  The  mother,  I  suppose,  would  be  beyond 
doing  anything  with.  .  .  .  The  little  sister-in-law  who 
dropped  you  into  the  trap — just  one  of  those  poor 
little  street-sparrows — only  sixteen  .  .  .  and  I  sup- 
pose the  Alfred  brother  dopes,  which  is,  of  course, 
hopeless." 

He  interrupted  her  in  a  burst  of  impatience. 

"You  mean  all  right,  Beth,  but  for  goodness'  sake 
don't  talk  about  it  any  more!" 

She  was  commenting  and  weighing  so  coolly!  And 
he  was  feverish  to  get  away,  to  see  Nancy.  .  .  .  Then 
he  came  back  remorsefully  to  little  Elisabeth,  smiling 
at  him  still  with  her  trained  sweetness  which  no  wound 
could  outwardly  ruffle,  but  with  eyes  which  had  winced 
at  his  words. 

"Very  well,"  she  was  acquiescing  brightly;  "and  re- 
member that  we're  all  praying  for  you  as  hard  as  ever 
we  can.  Our  Lord  will  see  it  through  the  right  way. 
.  .  .  But  one  thing  I  would  do,  Arden,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  it;  I'd  go  back  with  Uncle  Andrew 
for  a  day  or  two,  if  you  can  leave  your  parish  that 
much  longer.  He  wants  you,  I  know,  and  it  will  give 
you  a  perspective." 

He  thanked  her,  and  suggested  going  in.  He  did 
not  know  how  much  that  steady  brightness  cost  her. 
...  He  was  tired  of  hearing  about  the  Lord.  He'd 


28  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

heard  about  him  all  his  life — and  here  he  was!  He'd 
been  made  over  to  the  Lord  before  he  had  any  say 
about  it,  trained  like  a  sheep  to  walk  into  a  pen. 
And  now  .  .  .  and  now.  .  .  . 

But  in  the  end  he  did  go  back  with  Dr.  Blanton. 
He  could  get  a  respite  from  his  bitter  thoughts,  back 
in  the  little  sleepy  rectory  where  the  worst  problem, 
so  far  as  one  could  tell,  was  the  darky  housekeeper's 
struggle  to  dust  the  books  without  touching  them, 
which  was  Dr.  Blanton's  only  demand. 

He  found  himself  pouring  out  his  feelings  to  Dr. 
Blanton,  in  spite  of  himself,  before  he  had  been  there 
a  day,  as  the  two  sat  in  the  shabby  book-lined  study. 

"I  hate  it  all,"  he  said  angrily.  "Mother  always 
telling  me  that  we  were  set  apart  to  guide  the  souls 
of  men  .  .  .  that  nothing  could  be  more  wonderful  or 
better  worth  suffering  for.  But  women  don't  know. 
.  .  .  My  Lord,  Uncle  Andrew,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I'd 
been  set  apart — I  feel  as  if  I'd  been  chained;  locked 
in  a  prison  like  Caspar  Hauser,  too  young  to  know 
any  better.  The  other  men  Nancy  Whitall  knows 
can  be  men;  they  don't  have  to  purr  and  ask  vestries 
to  sit  in  judgment  on  them,  and  beg  mercy  from 
bishops  through  their  mothers.  To  have  to  feel  like 
a  yellow  dog  for  the  Gospel  of  Christ — " 

Uncle  Andrew  pulled  the  little  pointed  gray  beard 
that  somehow  managed  to  look  clerical,  and  consid- 
ered Arden  with  a  quizzical  gentleness. 

"No,  my  boy,  you  didn't  have  a  chance,"  he  agreed 
with  a  staggering  frankness.     "Most  of  your  fore- 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  29 

bears  and  connections  were  clergymen.  Your  mother 
was  of  clergy  stock.  The  air  all  round  you  was  full 
of  the  suggestion  that  you  be  a  clergyman  when  you 
grew  up.  But  my  own  feeling  about  you  has  been 
that  you  were  not  so  much  the  yellow  dog  you  describe 
as  the  bon  Men  qui  chasse  de  face.  .  .  .  But  of 
course  one  doesn't  know.  Why,  this  may  be  a  bless- 
ing in  disguise,  boy!  With  the  influential  friends  in 
your  parish  you  may  be  able  to  get  out  of  the  ministry 
and  into  something  where  you  can  have  the  normal 
man's  ideals  and  the  normal  man's  riches,  and  not 
bother  about  guiding  the  souls  of  men  any  longer.  .  .  . 
Only  I  wouldn't  stop  saying  my  prayers  for  awhile 
yet." 

He  looked  at  the  old  clergyman  in  surprise.  This 
was  the  last  counsel  he  would  have  expected  from 
Uncle  Andrew,  for  all  his  little  mannerisms  a  priest  to 
the  bone. 

"You  really  think,"  he  began. 

"  Really,  once  in  a  long  while,  as  a  change  from 
allowing  my  betters  in  the  daily  prints  and  monthly 
magazines  to  think  for  me,"  said  Uncle  Andrew 
amiably.  "At  present  my  thought-capacity,  such  as  it 
is,  is  exercised  by  the  idea  that  perhaps  you  don't 
belong  to  your  caste  except  by  training.  If  your 
ideals  are  those  of  Miss  Nancy — that  is  Mr.  Whitall's 
daughter,  I  think — if  you  really  belong  to  that  class 
and  caste,  that  is  where  you  should  actually  be,  and 
not  allow  a  mistaken  mother's  pressure  to  continue 
to  mold  your  life  fifteen  years  afterward." 


30  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

Arden's  eyes  lighted.  He  had  never  seriously  al- 
lowed himself  to  think  of  that  way  of  escape.  The 
consecration  of  the  priest — which  laymen  rarely  re- 
member at  all — is  a  thing  the  priest  takes  so  seriously 
as  a  rule  that  he  never  thinks  of  it  any  more  than  of 
his  hands;  and  considers  detaching  himself  from  it 
about  as  much.  .  .  .  And  he'd  thought  that  Uncle  An- 
drew, like  the  rest,  considered  him  more  or  less  des- 
tined to  little  Elisabeth.  ...  He  must  be  wise  after 
all,  to  realize  how  things  were. 

"But  I'd  say  my  prayers  just  the  same,  boy,"  Uncle 
Andrew  suggested  again  when  he  came  down,  his 
finger  in  the  inevitable  book,  to  say  good-by. 

Arden  smiled  back  at  him.    Things  felt  better. 

But  back  on  the  ground,  the  affair  loomed  inevi- 
tably black  and  close  again.  .  .  .  Even  the  terror  of 
feeling  that  these  dear  and  charming  people  of  his 
might  be  making  conversational  capital  out  of  his 
tale  in  a  couple  of  weeks  was  unbearable.  He  shiv- 
ered in  his  soul  at  the  thought  of  these  pretty  mock- 
eries, which  he  had  enjoyed  so  as  a  relief  from  the 
careful  charitableness  of  his  own  kind;  the  off-hand 
flippancies  of  the  men  whom  he  had  drawn  into  his 
church  work,  and  unconsciously  become  a  little 
like.  ...  But  Nancy  would  not  mock,  even  if  she 
knew — surely  not  Nancy.  The  rude  strain  in  her 
father  was  a  piquant  daringness  in  her;  the  easy  forth- 
rightness  of  her  mother,  veiling,  he  had  learned,  as 
deep  a  caste-spirit  as  his  mother's  own — surely  it 
veiled,  too,  as  high  feelings  and  nobilities  1 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  3* 

"Oh,  God,"  he  prayed  wildly,  walking  up  and  down 
his  study,  "Make  Nancy  loyal  to  me  at  any  cost! 
Make  her  stanch  to  me,  whether  it  is  thy  will  or  not!" 

It  was  the  first  prayer  he  had  ever  allowed  himself 
to  make,  unguarded  by  the  "Thy  Will  Be  Done" 
which  his  childhood  training  had  insisted  on  as  a 
necessary  thing.  Such  unguarded  prayers,  the  spirit- 
ually wise  tell  you,  have  more  chance  of  being  an- 
swered. But  for  all  that  it  is  a  mistake,  they  say,  to 
make  them. 

He  went  to  see  Nancy  that  night.  He  could  keep 
away  from  her  no  longer.  She  was  unchanged  to  him, 
just  what  she  had  been,  which  made  him  think  that 
her  father  had  not  told  her.  He  was  on  fire  to  tell 
her  what  was  in  his  heart,  that  night,  and  it  almost 
seemed  to  him  as  if  she  was  trying  to  win  the  actual 
words  from  him,  by  word  and  movement,  and  manner, 
that  surely  she  could  not  realize  were  too  reckless. 
Once  or  twice  during  the  evening  he  felt  this  over- 
recklessness  as  jarring  dimly;  but  he  pushed  it  from 
him.  His  ideals,  he  told  himself  truly,  were  those  of 
a  certain  small  class,  to  whom  touches  and  words 
meant  too  much,  guarded  as  they  had  to  be.  He 
went  home  racked  by  the  almost  physical  effort  he 
had  had  to  make  the  evening  through  to  keep  from 
taking  Nancy  in  his  arms  and  telling  her  how  he 
loved  her;  throbbing,  too,  with  the  excitement  of  the 
most  wonderful  evening  he  had  ever  had  with  her. 
She'd  never  had  to  weigh  word  or  deed  for  the  sake 
of  watching  congregations,  dear,  unburdened  young 


32  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

Nancy!  He  hoped  she  would  never  learn  to,  even 
after  they  were  married. 

He  dreamed  on,  all  the  way  home.  He  had  walked, 
the  longer  to  be  out  under  the  sky  with  his  thoughts. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  soon  he  could  tell  her.  Things  were 
beginning  to  look  safe  again. 

It  is  at  such  moments  as  these  that  blows,  proverb- 
ially, fall. 

"Parkerman  is  here,  Mr.  Garrison,"  his  house- 
keeper told  him  pleasantly  as  he  entered.  "He  won't 
go  away.  I  told  him  the  new  man  was  perfectly  satis- 
factory, and  I  didn't  think  there  was  any  use  his 
staying,  but  he  would  do  it." 

Parkerman  sat  in  the  little  room  Arden's  dreams 
had  always  consecrated  to  Nancy;  a  hateful  sight 
there.  He  began  his  business  without  preface.  He 
had  waited  long  enough,  he  explained.  He'd  shut  up 
because  that  old  Blanton — nice  old  cuss — had  been  an' 
talked  to  him  about  Mr.  Whitall  not  likin'  it.  But 
after  all  Whitall  couldn't  do  much  to  a  free  American 
citizen,  if  he  did  have  a  lot  of  ill-gotten  money.  Leora 
was  sick  from  the  tragedy  still — she'd  developed  faint- 
in'-fits  from  the  shock.  (The  impudence  of  this 
passed  over  Arden's  head;  he  was  too  horror-struck.) 
In  fact,  it  seemed  that  the  whole  Parkerman  family 
was  fading  like  a  flower  under  this  unprecedented 
soilure  of  their  scutcheon.  It  had  the  goods  on  the 
parson,  and  unless  highly  paid  would  take  great  pleas- 
ure in  getting  back  at  him.  Or  reinstatement,  along 
with  back  salary  as  sexton,  might  be  considered.  .  .  . 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  33 

He  went  into  hideous  details  of  what  would  get  into 
the  papers. 

"No  matter  how  much  pull  you  got  you  can't  make 
'em  keep  you  after  that,  vestry  nor  church.  You  got 
as  much  chanst  to  make  a  livin'  as  a  celluloid  pup 
in  hell.  An'—"  Bill  looked  thoughtful—  "I  dunno 
but  I'm  goin'  to  tell  the  world  anyhow.  Any  man  that 
would  take  advantage  of  prayin'  to  win  the  affections 
of  a  trustin'  young  thing  like  Leory — " 

Arden  could  stand  no  more  turns  of  his  rack. 

"Go  as  far  as  you  like — tell  every  one!"  he  cried, 
springing  to  his  feet  and  standing,  tall,  handsome,  steel- 
white,  over  the  other  man.  "I  have  God  on  my  side." 

"An'  all  the  pretty  girls,"  Bill  finished.  "They're 
more  use.  If  you  had  that  Nan  Whitall  enough 
vamped  to  swing  old  Farrell  for  you — they  say  his 
wife  wants  to  kill  her — him  an'  Whitall  might  fix  it 
up  for  you.  But  I  guess  you  ain't."  He  leered  as  he 
spoke  of  Nancy.  "I  guess  I  better  fix  things  so  you 
can't  wreck  any  more  homes.  You're  too  much  of  a 
lady-killer  for  this  here  town." 

Before  he  got  any  further  Arden,  furious,  put  him 
out  of  the  house  by  main  strength.  It  was  not  hard; 
all  the  Parker  mans  were  physically  frail.  He  came 
back,  excited  almost  to  happiness  by  the  physical  out- 
let. But  in  a  few  minutes  the  thing  came  to  him  in 
its  reality.  For  the  hope  of  a  distant  future  in  an- 
other profession  from  this  that  had  been  made  so 
hateful  to  him  was  a  frail  thing,  against  the  actuality 
of  this  impending  disgrace.  The  thing  would  be 


34  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

public  now.    And  his  last  chance  of  keeping  it  from 
Nancy  would  be  gone. 

Next  day  Elisabeth  called  him  on  the  telephone — 
Elisabeth,  of  all  people,  here  in  his  own  parish.  Visit- 
ing some  friends,  she  said.  She  wanted  him  to  come 
over  to  see  her. 

He  almost  swore  in  his  annoyance.  He  did  not 
want  to  see  Elisabeth,  who  had  always  looked  up  to 
him.  His  feeling  for  her  included,  naturally,  a  cer- 
tain male  lordliness,  as  is  inevitable  when  a  woman 
has  been  suggested  to  a  man  as  a  matrimonial  possi- 
bility. But  he  had  a  very  real  fondness  for  her,  and 
a  long  training  in  doing  what  he  ought  whether  he 
liked  or  not.  There  was  no  excuse  he  could  think  of. 
So  he  went. 

After  the  first,  it  proved  a  comfort  to  talk  the  thing 
out  with  her,  she  was  so  matter-of-fact  about  it.  She 
was  sweet  and  comforting,  even  a  little  gay  over  the 
seriousness  with  which  he  took  it  all.  It  was  not  in 
the  papers  as  yet;  but  there  had  been  a  flock  of  cun- 
ningly written  letters,  which  Parkerman  must  have 
had  ready  before  he  went  to  make  his  last  attempt  at 
Arden,  settling  down  all  over  the  parish.  The  people 
Elisabeth  was  staying  with  bade  him  good-night  with 
marked  cordiality  .  .  .  which  he  did  not  want  to  be 
grateful  for.  But  he  had  needed  the  relief  Elisabeth's 
counsel  gave  him,  he  realized  after  leaving.  Only  he 
wished  he  had  not  given  her  the  Parkerman  address. 
He  hoped  she  had  no  wild  plan  of  trying  to  soften 
the  hardened  old  wretch  of  a  mother  into  confession: 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  35 

it  was  only  in  stories  that  people  did  that  sort  of 
romantic  thing,  as  Elisabeth  should  know  after  a  life" 
time  of  parish  work.  But  you  couldn't  stop  Elisabeth 
after  her  mind  was  made  up,  and  after  all  she  had  a 
charm  about  her;  even  the  Parkermans  mightn't  in- 
sult little  Elisabeth. 

...  It  was  worse  than  he  had  thought  it  would  be;' 
the  pitying  looks  of  his  people,  assurances  of  belief 
which  hurt  because  they  were  condescendingly  put; 
letters  from  people  whom  he  learned  now  for  the  first 
time  had  always  hated  him;  other  letters  from  gushing 
fools  of  both  sexes;  even  the  ones  from  kindly  souls 
— the  whole  thing  made  a  scar  for  life.  He  went 
through  it  with  courage,  but  it  was  a  horrible  week. 
The  vestry  sat  again,  formally  in  judgment  on  him 
this  time.  There  was  a  parish  meeting,  reported  to 
him  by  a  half  dozen  of  the  too-zealous,  where  there 
was  a  long,  long  wrangle  before  he  was  granted  that 
futile  thing,  a  vote  of  confidence.  It  was  being  kept 
out  of  the  papers  by  a  miracle  that  could  not  be  of 
long  continuance.  There  was  the  prospect  of  an  eccle- 
siastical trial. 

Whitall  was  stanch  through  it  all;  but  his  attitude 
hurt  Arden  more  than  he  told  himself  it  should.  He 
too  plainly  seemed  less  to  defend  Arden's  innocence 
than  to  admit,  unofficially,  that  even  if  Arden  had  been 
guilty  it  wasn't  such  an  important  thing  to  a  man  so 
efficient  in  his  profession.  This  was  not  his  public 
attitude,  of  course,  nor  even  frankly  his  private  one; 
but  Arden,  sensitized  into  clairvoyance  by  his  unhappi- 


36  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

ness,  felt  it  none  the  less.  No  Sir  Galahad  was  ever 
prouder  of  his  stainless  shield  than  Arden,  consecrated 
priest,  and  son  and  grandson  of  priests,  had  been 
trained  to  be.  He  did  not  realize  that  this  was  a 
thing  men  outside  his  caste  could  not  realize  or  know. 

The  end  of  that  racking  week  was  a  summons  to 
Whi tail's  house.  Arden  had  thought  he  was  steeled 
for  anything,  but  this  was  a  last,  needless  humiliation. 
He  had  carefully  avoided  Nancy  since  he  knew  that 
she  must  know.  He  was  nearly  sure  to  see  her,  now. 
.  .  .  Yet  his  heart  leaped  a  little  in  spite  of  him  at 
the  hope.  He  had  prayed  that  she  be  loyal  to  him 
at  whatever  cost,  and  he  believed  that  God  would 
answer  that  prayer.  And  yet  ...  if  she  were 
not.  .  .  . 

Well,  if  she  were  not,  he  told  himself,  so  much  the 
better  for  her.  For  her  father's  last  telephoned  words 
had  taken  nearly  all  hope  from  him. 

"Some  new  business  has  turned  up,"  Whitall  had 
said.  "Come  over  right  away." 

The  telephone  rang  desperately  again,  just  as  he 
left,  but  he  did  not  answer  it.  He  hurried  out  and 
drove  over  to  Whitall's  in  the  little  car  he  had  loved 
so  boyishly,  staring  straight  ahead  with  eyes  which 
scarcely  saw  the  direction  they  drove  in.  He  won- 
dered, dully  amused,  whether  it  would  be  considered 
that  a  discredited  clergyman  had  a  right  to  keep  a 
car  given  him  by  people  who  believed  in  him.  He 
would  not  longer  have  his  little  rectory,  of  course. 
He  would  not  even  have  honor,  except  in  his  own 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  37 

soul.  .  .  .  not  anything  .  .  .  unless  reckless,  innocent 
Nancy,  believing  still,  walked  out  into  the  darkness 
with  him  to  a  new  life. 

He  passed  into  the  big  country-house  like  a  man 
going  to  execution.  Entering  Whitall's  study,  half 
blind,  he  was  surprised  to  find  the  old  man  rushing 
at  him  with  a  triumphant  air,  shaking  both  his  hands 
warmly.  At  Arden's  astonished  air  he  fell  back, 
astonished,  too. 

"Didn't  Miss  Deering  get  you  on  the  telephone? 
She  said  she  thought  you  ought  to  be  told  more  before 
you  came — " 

Elisabeth,  of  all  people —  What  had  she  to  do 
with  it?  And  at  that  she  came  into  the  room  herself, 
just  the  little  dauntless  pretty  thing  of  every  day. 

"I  couldn't  get  him,"  she  said.  "He'd  just  gone. 
Miss  Whitall's  trying.  ...  Oh,  Arden,  it's  all  right! 
It's  all  right!" 

"It's  all  right!"  Whitall  boomed  joyously.  "You 
needn't  resign,  my  lad — unless  you  want  to  do  it  be- 
cause you  have  something  better  in  view  than  being  a 
parson;  as  well  you  might,  after  this!  You've  gone 
through  this  in  a  way  that  makes  me  darn  proud — " 

Elisabeth  interrupted  again — Elisabeth,  ordinarily 
too  well  mannered  to  interrupt  millionaires  or  scrub- 
women. She  was  clasping  her  hands  joyously,  almost 
dancing  with  delight. 

"It's  all  right;  Hazel  confessed!" 

He  was  too  dazed  yet  to  get  it. 

"Hazel— what  Hazel?" 


38  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

"Hazel  is  Alfred  Parkerman's  wife,"  Whitall  ex- 
plained with  what,  for  him  was  gentleness.  "This 
wonderful  kid  has  been  working  all  week  to  get  it  out 
of  her.  And  she's  succeeded,  by  Jove — actually  a 
signed  confession!  It's  more  than  I  thought  anybody 
could  put  over,"  he  ended,  with  a  look  of  man-to-man 
admiration  of  the  girl. 

Elisabeth  dimpled  with  exactly  the  same  pretty  smile 
as  if  she  were  being  praised  for  an  efficient  Sunday- 
school  class. 

"I  never  thought  I'd  manage  it,"  she  confessed. 
"And  I  couldn't  help  being  sorry,  too,  for  the  poor 
little  girl.  But  I  think  she  was  happier  after  she'd 
told.  She  seemed  fond  of  Arden.  .  .  .  I — I — none  of 
Arden's  good  friends  but  would  have  done  as  much  if 
they  could.  It  was  really  Uncle  Andrew's  idea,  not 
mine;  he  talked  it  over  with  me,  and  told  me  he 
thought  there  might  be  a  chance  if  I  asked  Mary  Lee 
if  I  could  come  stay  with  her,  and  tried  hard.  It  is 
you  who  have  been  wonderful  through  everything, 
dear  Mr.  Whitall.  Uncle  Jim  always  speaks  so  won- 
derfully of  you."  She  had  her  old  armor  of  sweet 
composure  on  by  now;  the  courteous,  trained  bright- 
ness that  must  never  forget  to  please.  But  for  a 
minute  a  real,  passionate  little  determined  Elisabeth 
had  peeped  through,  and  Arden  looked  at  her  fasci- 
natedly. He  hadn't  known  there  was  this  sort  of 
thing  to  her. 

"Well,  I  won't  speak  wonderfully  of  you,"  Whitall 
was  replying  bluntly,  "though  I've  always  thought  old 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  39 

Dr.  Blanton  had  more  brains  than  he  needed  for  the 
ministry,  now  you  speak  of  it.  But  I  tell  you  again, 
Miss  Deering,  if  you  take  that  job  I  have  in  mind 
for  you,  in  time  you'll  be  making  big  money.  Young 
people  like  you  and  Garrison  shouldn't  be  fooling 
away  your  time  and  energy  on  parish  work:  a  boy 
like  Arden  oughtn't  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  pack 
of  degenerates  every  time  they  choose  to  write  letters 
about  themselves  and  their  fits.  I've  had  an  idea  in 
my  head  about  your  future  for  some  time,  Garrison- 
As  Uncle  Andrew  had  suggested.  And  an  opening 
from  old  WhitalPs  hand  meant  a  starting  point  from 
which  either  he  or  Elisabeth  could  go  far.  .  .  .  And 
Nancy — Nancy  within  his  reach  again?  He  too — 
for  Whitall  was  a  man  of  his  word,  even  when  that 
word  was  only  a  hint — would  be  in  that  business 
world,  where  every  ounce  of  expended  energy  counted 
for  your  own  advancement,  not  for  a  vague  good  of 
indifferent  others;  where  a  man  like  himself,  he  knew, 
could  go  far,  Nancy,  and  being  one  of  Nancy's  kindl 
"Does— Miss  Whitall  know?" 
"About  the  Parkerman  girl  owning  up?  Why,  we 
only  just  knew  ourselves!"  said  Whitall  in  high  good 
humor.  "But  she's  strong  for  your  side,  my  boy — 
has  more  views  than  anybody  else  except  my  little 
secretary-to-be,  here!" 

He  excused  himself,  on  the  frank  plea  of  wanting 
to  tell  her,  and  hurried  downstairs  to  the  little  room 
where  he  knew  Nancy  would  be.  As  he  left  them,  he 
saw  Elisabeth,  having  been  settled  in  a  chair  for 


40  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

further  coercion  on  the  subject  of  the  secretaryship, 
settling  her  pink  skirt  daintily  so  that  it  was  decorous, 
and  explaining  again  why  she  couldn't  do  it.  Her 
small  pink  and  white  and  golden  figure  was  the  last 
thing  Arden  saw,  against  the  dark  carved  background 
of  the  high  chair.  And  queerly  enough,  it  was  just 
such  a  chair  that  Nancy  lounged  in  when  he  reached 
her. 

He  always  remembered  her  most  vividly  as  he  saw 
her  then,  though  he  saw  her  for  a  good  deal  of  his  life 
afterwards.  She  was  more  than  ever  a  woodland  crea- 
ture of  reds  and  browns,  for  her  cheeks  burned  crim- 
son under  her  brown  skin,  and  the  dull-green  of  her 
scant  little  dress  made  her  eyes  and  hair  seem  duskier 
than  ever.  As  she  rose  to  meet  him,  almost  with  a 
spring,  one  long  gold  earring  swung  hard  against  her 
vivid  face.  He  had  never  seen  her  when  she  seemed 
so  alive  and  forceful. 

"I've  come  to  tell  you  about  this  trouble  I've  been 
through,"  he  said  eagerly  as  he  entered,  without  other 
preface.  "I  can  talk  to  you  now.  It  was  too  hor- 
rible, too  soiling,  for  you  to  be  told  about  before — 
I  suppose  you've  heard  scraps  of  it,  but  I  hope  not 
much — not  you." 

"It  wasn't  too  horrible!"  she  said  energetically. 
"Do  you  think  I  don't  know  all  about  much  worse 
things  than  that?  Everybody  does  them  and  talks 
about  them."  She  came  close  to  him,  taking  hold  of 
his  arms  in  what  was  almost  an  embrace,  so  that 
he  could  feel  the  fever  of  her  hands  through  his  black 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  41 

coat-sleeves.  "Supposing  you  did  do  it?  I  don't 
care!  Those  things  don't  count  where  a  man's  con- 
cerned. Fight  it  through!  I'll  stand  by  you,  and 
tell  any  lie  you  like.  I'll  line  up  Father,  too.  And 
I  can  swing  old  Barton  Farrell  into  line,  too.  He's 
crazy  over  me." 

His  arms  quivered  under  the  burning  touch  of  her 
hands.  But  he  stared  at  her  as  she  stood  before  him, 
vibrant  with  her  passion  of  romantic  defense.  Where 
had  he  heard  words  like  those  before,  about  old  Far- 
rell? .  .  .  Yes — Bill  Parkerman  had  spoken  them, 
with  an  evil  look.  He  withdrew  from  her  instinctively, 
automatically. 

She  was  frightened  at  his  look. 

"What— what  is  it?"  she  stammered. 

"You  believed  I  could  do  a  thing  like  that?  You 
could  forgive  a  man  who  had  been  such  a  creature? 
You  would — lie  for  such  a  man,  use  your  power  over  a 
roue  for  him,  you  whom  I  scarcely  thought  I  could 
tell  about  such  men  and  women?" 

She  stared  at  him,  hurt  and  uncomprehending,  and 
he  softened,  as  the  human  side  of  it  came  back  to  him 
with  a  stab. 

"Oh,  Nancy,  I  didn't  know  we  were  so  different — 
I  didn't  understand,"  he  murmured.  "I'm  sorry  I 
spoke  to  you  so  harshly.  But — you  don't  under- 
stand, either.  You're  offering  me  the  best  thing  you 
know.  Maybe  you're  too  big  for  me  to  comprehend — 
too  noble.  But  we  won't  ever  be  able  to  see  this  the 
same  way — " 


42  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded,  looking  at 
him  levelly;  and  he  saw  that  it  was  across  a  gulf  of 
beliefs  and  environments  that  neither  of  them  could 
ever  pass. 

He  had  stepped  unconsciously  back  into  the  fast- 
ness of  his  ministerial  courtesy — the  manner  of  his 
caste. 

"Thank  you  for  what  you  have  said  to  me.  But 
it  won't  be  necessary.  Elisabeth  Deering  came  here 
to-night  to  tell  your  father  that  she  had  induced  one 
of  the  Parkermans  to  confess  that  the  whole  thing 
was  a  lie.  .  .  .  I — you  see,  I  didn't  do  it,  Nancy. 
It  is  really  true  that  I  did  nothing  wrong.  I  can 
see  that,  knowing  only  the  things  you  do,  it's  natural 
you  should  have  thought  me  guilty — "  his  voice 
broke.  He  had  loved  that  Nancy  who  existed  no- 
where now,  and  it  hurt  dully  to  go  on  talking  to  this 
girl  who  was  not  she.  "But  I  didn't  know  your  point 
of  view.  And  you  didn't  know  mine." 

He  went  out  before  she  could  answer.  He  could 
not  bear  to  stay  in  the  room  any  longer.  He  could 
hear  Elisabeth's  voice  as  he  paused  before  Whitall's 
door. 

"I  don't  believe  I  could,"  she  was  saying.  "You 
see,  we're  a  sort  of  clan  all  by  ourselves,  we  clergy- 
people.  Even  if  I  did  make  good  I  wouldn't  feel  as 
if  I  belonged.  And  I  do  belong  where  I  am." 

Arden  opened  the  door  and  spoke  more  abruptly 
than  he  knew. 

"Elisabeth,"  he  said,  "may  I  drive  you  back?     I 


OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD  43 

want  to  give  you  some  messages  for  Uncle  Andrew." 

He  made  his  acknowledgments  to  Mr.  Whitall 
mechanically,  and  hurried  Elisabeth  away.  He 
scarcely  spoke  all  the  way  home:  but  before  he 
dropped  Elisabeth  at  the  Lees'  he  held  her  hand  close 
for  a  long  minute. 

"Tell  Uncle  Andrew,  please,"  he  said,  "that  .  .  . 
I  am  not  ashamed  of  the  Gospel  of  Christ." 

Uncle  Andrew,  when  he  had  the  message,  looked 
up  dreamily  from  his  task,  which  was  at  that  moment 
the  composition  of  a  letter  to  a  Western  bishop  whose 
pet  curate,  having  ramped  down  into  Dr.  Blanton's 
parish  with  curious  ideas  about  ritual  dances,  was  be- 
ing painlessly  deported  to  a  more  advanced  curacy  in 
an  Eastern  city. 

"They'll  like  ritual  dances  in  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try. Who  am  I  to  stop  any  curate  from  keeping  the 
old  maids  of  his  congregation  healthfully  employed? 
— though  I  do  think  it  must  be  confined  to  the  parish- 
house,"  he  added.  "We're  not  really  ready  for  them 
down  here.  What  did  you  say,  Lizzie  child?" 

She  said  it  again,  flushing  a  little. 

"Bon  Men"  said  Uncle  Andrew  with  the  excellent 
accent  he  had  acquired  in  Paris  thirty  years  before, 
"chasse  de  race.  I  hope,"  he  added  compunctiously, 
"that  I  didn't  influence  him  unduly."  Elisabeth 
opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"Why,  he  said—" 

"But  it  wasn't  so  entirely  his  mother — really,  it  was 
not  so  much  his  mother  as  his  ancestors.  I'm  afraid 


44  OF  THE  CLAN  OF  GOD 

he  was  beyond  being  anything  but  a  servant  of  God 
before  he  was  born.  .  .  .  And  the  Gospel  of  Christ," 
said  Uncle  Andrew  over  the  flap  of  his  envelope,  "is 
after  all  not  such  a  bad  thing  not  to  be  ashamed  of!" 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

"HAVING  nephews  and  nieces,"  said  Dr.  Blanton  with 
transparent  mournfulness,  "is  a  profession,  not  a 
taste." 

Elisabeth  Garrison,  who  was  only  his  niece-in-law 
by  marriage,  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  Her  hus- 
band laughed. 

"You  mean  that  it  doesn't  give  you  much  time  from 
your  parish,  Uncle  Andrew?"  he  said.  "Well,  we  have 
to  go  back  to  ours  to-morrow  morning,  so  there  will 
be  that  much  off  your  mind." 

"I  may  take  the  same  train,"  said  Uncle  Andrew 
astonishingly,  for  he  was  not  fond  of  travel,  "going 
to  New  York." 

"That  will  be  lovely,"  murmured  Elisabeth,  who 
never  asked  questions  for  fear  she  might  stumble  on 
an  embarrassing  one.  Arden  had  not  the  same  re- 
straints. 

"What  on  earth  for?" 

"Well,  I'm  getting  to  be  an  old  man.  And  the 
parish  is  hurling  me  forth  on  a  vacation — with  emolu- 
ments. If  you  lived  nearer,  Arden,  I  would  ask  you 
to  keep  an  eye  on  my  locum  tenens;  the  last  one  wore 
such  exciting  vestments  that  it  was  a  weary  while  be- 
fore my  own  tamer  garments,  I  fear,  really  delighted 
the  eye  of  the  younger  element  again.  .  .  .  And  I 

45 


46  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

have  my  sister  Ella's  son  on  my  mind.  My  name- 
sake. Andrew's  letters  seem  depressed  of  late.  I 
have  thought" —  Uncle  Andrew  looked  like  an  eld- 
erly and  gamesome  owl  for  a  moment  in  his  effort  to 
express  a  hint — "that  there  may  be  a  girl.  I  am 
very  good  at  arranging  young  men's  affairs  with 
girls.  .  .  ." 

"Andrew  shouldn't  worry.  I  hear  that  that  settle- 
ment-church of  his,  or  whatever  he  calls  it,  is  pros- 
pering beyond  everything,"  said  Arden  Garrison, 
whose  own  fashionable  little  Pennsylvania  parish 
sometimes  left  him  longing  for  more  work  to  do. 

"Well,  well;  I  just  think  I'll  drop  in,"  said  Dr. 
Blanton.  "My  horse  Horatio's  a  little  on  my  mind, 
but  perhaps  it  will  do  him  good  to  miss  me." 

As  Fiammetta  talked,  sometimes  haltingly,  some* 
times  with  a  sudden  jet  of  passionate  words  that 
tumbled  over  themselves,  Andrew  Anthony's  eyes 
turned  at  intervals  to  the  picture  of  old  Bishop  West, 
over  his  fireplace.  Anthony  had  not  put  it  there* 
It  was  a  part  of  St.  John's  Memorial  that  would 
be  there  long  after  his  pastorate  was  done,  and  after, 
thank  Heaven,  the  problem  of  Fiammetta  Angelo  had 
ended  itself — somehow.  And  any  end  would  be  bet- 
ter than  suffering  over  it  as  he  was,  and  as  Fiammetta 
was;  though  Fiammetta,  poor  soul,  had  at  least  the 
relief  of  talking  about  it  unceasingly  to  every  one  she 
knew  who  would  stop  to  listen.  Anthony  gripped 
the  edges  of  the  table  behind  him  with  one  nervous. 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  47 

hand.  .  .  .  Fiammetta  was  hurting  him  horribly.  He 
scarcely  paid  attention  to  what  she  was  saying — he 
had  heard  it  all  before. 

"An'  when  I  dress  up  for  please  John,  he  say:  'You 
stupid,  you  silly!  You  not  like  American  girl!  No  so 
nobby.7  When  I  used  to  put  flowers  back  my  ears 
in  Italia  he  say:  cAh-h,  molta  bella.'  Now  if  I  go 
buy  American  hats  he  not  like  it.  An'  not  like  me 
be  Italiana  neither — " 

"But,  Fiammetta,  what  can  I  do?"  Anthony  de- 
manded. "I  wish  John  hadn't  grown  away  from  you. 
I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you  learn  American  ways 
and  ideas,  and  perhaps  you  can  win  him  back." 

"Win  him  back!"  she  said  passionately,  pushing 
one  hand  through  her  hair  with  a  tragic  gesture.  "But 
this  day  he  say — ah,  he  say  new  things  you  not  have 
heard.  He  say  'American  divorce.'  He  say,  all 
wrong  to  stay  marry  when  all  love  is  gone.  He  say 
we  no  more  belong  together.  He  belong  with  beauti- 
ful American.  They  all  alike — I  only  an  Italian  that 
can't  be  educated,  can't  be  young  no  more — " 

"Fiammetta!  Did  John  Angelo  really  tell  you  he 
wanted  to  be  free  from  you  and  marry  another 
woman?" 

"Yes.  He  only  say  what  I  know  long  time.  I  wish 
I  could  kill  her." 

Anthony's  eyes  still  brooded  on  old  Bishop  West, 
erect  and  briskly  authoritative  in  his  broad  gold  frame. 

"You  mus'  stop  heem!  You  are  all  the  pries'  what 
he  think  anything  of.  He  is  ateisto,  you  know  that 


48  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

He  believe  in  you,  because  your  religion  is  all  take 
baths,  read  books,  be  'Mericano.  You  make  him 
stop." 

After  she  had  long  gone,  sobbing  stormily  and  with- 
out concealment  into  her  coat  sleeve,  Andrew  Anthony 
sat  in  the  chair  she  had  sprung  from,  watching  the 
assured  old  portrait  with  troubled  young  eyes. 

"I  suppose  you'cl  have  known  how  to  put  this 
through  with  colors  flying — and  made  some  sort  of  un- 
holy mess  of  it  from  everything  but  the  church  angle. 
.  .  .  And  at  that  you'd  be  doing  more  than  I  can," 
he  said,  addressing  the  portrait.  "Good  Lord,  I  wish 
the  days  would  come  back  when  a  man  knew  he  was 
God's  mouthpiece  because  he'd  been  ordained!" 

Anthony  was  the  rector  of  St.  John's  Memorial 
Church,  and  for  a  man  of  thirty-two  he  held  an  envia- 
ble position.  It  was  one  of  those  churches  which  are 
pointed  to  proudly  as  "keeping  up  with  the  needs  of 
the  time."  It  had  all  manner  of  classes;  it  had  a  gym- 
nasium; it  had  a  room  which  was  at  times  an  excellent 
neighborhood  theater,  and  gave  one-act  plays  entirely 
acted  by  the  people  of  the  neighborhood.  It  also  had 
in  Anthony  a  rector  who,  in  spite  of  three  generations 
of  Episcopal  clergy  behind  him,  did  not  nag  his  flock 
about  religion.  They  were  mostly  atheistic  Italians. 
They  appreciated  his  attitude.  They  agreed  politely 
that  perhaps  there  was  something  in  what  he  said, 
and,  meanwhile,  they  felt  free  to  use  the  swimming 
pool  and  come  to  English  classes.  They  liked  him. 
Most  people  did. 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  49 

He  and  John  Angelo  had  liked  each  other  thor- 
oughly, and,  in  spite  of  everything,  he  was  drawn  to 
Angelo  still.  The  Angelos  had  come  from  Italy  ten 
years  before;  he  a  slim,  dreaming  boy  with  a  beautiful 
dark  face  and  a  passion  for  drawing  after  his  work 
was  over;  she  a  graceful  little  wisp  of  a  contadina  with 
the  dark  prettiness  of  her  sixteen  years,  and  eyes  that 
even  for  an  Italian  girl  were  exceptionally  beautiful. 
At  twenty-six,  like  most  of  her  class,  she  had  lost  the 
woodland  grace  and  the  look  of  youth;  only  her  eyes 
were  lovely  still,  under  the  badly  chosen  American 
hats.  He,  at  twenty-eight,  was  fairly  on  the  way  to 
being  a  big  artist.  And  he  still  had  his  dark  young 
beauty.  He  was  a  very  wonderful  product  of  the 
Memorial's  helping  activities.  It  hadn't  spoiled  him, 
unless  having  outgrown  Fiammetta  was  being  spoiled. 

Anthony  tried  to  put  himself  in  Angelo's  place. 
Suppose  you  were  married  to  a  woman  who  bored  you, 
who  hadn't  a  thing  in  common  with  you,  who  went 
about  weeping  shrilly  because  you  loved  her  no  longer, 
who  made  irritating  little  forlorn  attempts  at  winning 
you  back  by  the  wrong  kind  of  cheap  clothes.  It 
could  happen,  he  supposed. 

Angelo,  besides  being  a  fine  painter,  had  a  mind. 
Fiammetta  was  not  clever,  not  even  understanding. 
Angelo  loved  beauty  and  luxury  and  civilized  stand- 
ards of  living.  Fiammetta  was  not  teachable.  He 
mustn't  judge.  He  had  no  right  to  judge.  ...  He 
must  be  fairer  to  John  Angelo  than  he  would  to  any 
other  man,  because  there  was  Phoebe  Rockingham. 


50  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

Phoebe  was  a  little  darting,  vivid  hummingbird  of 
a  girl.  She  came  down  and  taught  swimming  classes, 
and  sometimes  took  dancing  classes  when  some  other 
volunteer  dropped  out.  She  believed  in  everything 
and  every  one  so  ardently  that  you  hadn't  the  heart 
to  stop  her.  And  she  was  sweet — oh,  she  was  the 
sweetest  and  loveliest  and  kindest;  she  talked  about 
freedom  and  breaking  old  narrow  laws  and  giving 
every  one  the  right  to  broadness  and  happiness  in  a 
way  that  made  it  very  clear  how  far  she  was  from 
knowing  that  any  one  could  ever  misuse  any  gift. 
She  was  too  good  to  believe  in  the  possibility  of  other 
people  being  less  pure  and  ardent  and  generous  than 
herself.  Anthony  loved  her  quite  as  much  as  John 
Angelo  did.  That  was  why,  when  poor  Fiammetta 
had  uttered  her  quite  natural  wish  to  kill  the  woman 
her  husband  loved,  Anthony  had  felt  his  sympathy, 
in  spite  of  him,  going.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  Angelo  would  make  Phoebe  happier  than 
he  could.  They  always  seemed  to  have  so  much  to 
say  to  each  other,  so  much  in  common.  Anthony  felt 
himself  to  be  a  slow-minded,  unexciting  person  beside 
these  two.  Oh,  what  was  right — what  was  wrong? 
What  should  he  do,  and  even  if  he  knew,  should  he 
do  it? 

But,  blessedly  for  him,  it  was  time  to  go  home  to 
dinner.  Afterward  he  must  take  his  troop  of  Boy 
Scouts  out  for  a  hike.  That  group  of  chattering, 
black-eyed  restless  young  imps  would  effectually  keep 
him  from  giving  thought  to  anything  but  them. 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  51 

As  he  went  slowly  down  the  broad  stairs  Phoebe 
flashed  up  them,  singing. 

"Hasn't  this  been  a  most  gorgeous  day?  I  do  hope 
you've  liked  it  as  much  as  I  have,"  she  said.  "I've 
been  out  getting  autumn  leaves  over  on  the  Palisades, 
with  at  least  thirteen  children  who  never  saw  a  leaf 
before.  It  was  such  fun!  They  want  to  make  it  a 
mixed  affair  next  week — Boy  Scouts  and  you.  Want 
to  come?" 

"Do  I  want  to  come?"  said  young  Anthony,  perhaps 
a  bit  more  ardently  than  the  occasion  demanded — but 
Phoebe  was  so  ardent  herself  over  the  smallest  thing 
that  it  didn't  matter.  "I  want  to  do  it  more  than  any- 
thing I  know." 

She  clapped  her  hands.  "It'll  be  even  better  than 
last  time,  though  we  said  it  couldn't  be!  Don't  forget! 
I've  just  time  for  one  flying  leap  from  here  to  the 
pool." 

She  was  gone,  her  swift  little  feet  tap-tapping  above 
him,  up  another  flight.  He  could  hear  her  voice,  just 
as  gaily  friendly,  just  as  sweet,  greeting  some  shrill- 
voiced  small  child  on  the  stair  above,  and  his  unreas- 
onable heart  sank.  He  knew  well  the  outrush  of 
warmth  and  friendliness  to  all  the  world  which  comes 
of  caring  for  some  one  person  in  it.  It  had  seemed 
to  him  that  Phoebe  was  gayer  and  happier  with  every 
one  lately. 

Fortunately  there  were  always  things  to  think  about. 
This  Angelo  problem  was  not  the  only  one  in  his  big 
flock.  Anthony  concentrated  doggedly  on  other  mat- 


52  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

ters  till  he  was  through  with  his  meal;  after  that  the 
Boy  Scouts,  as  he  had  foreseen,  quite  occupied  his 
mind.  And  then  he  met  Father  Doughty. 

Anthony  was  on  good  terms  with  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic priest  of  his  neighborhood.  To-night  Father 
Doughty  greeted  him  with  warmth.  "I  hear  you're  to 
have  a  visitor  who's  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  said  jovially. 
"Why  did  ye  never  tell  me  that  Andrew  Blanton  was 
your  uncle?" 

"I — why,  how  could  I  know  you  knew  him?"  said 
Andrew,  naturally.  "Do  you  mean  that  Uncle  Andrew 
is  coming  up  to  see  me?" 

"Sure,  I  must  have  spoiled  his  grand  surprise,"  said 
Father  Doughty.  "Know  him?  Sure,  you  know  a  man 
pretty  well  when  you  and  he  and  three  doctors  are 
doing  fifteen  men's  work  in  a  yellow-fever  epidemic. 
I'm  not  saying  he  has  the  right  orders,  but  if  he  was 
a  saint  when  he  was  thirty  it's  little  likely  he's  differ- 
ent now.  And  that  he  was — and  as  hard  a  worker 
for  the  souls  of  the  poor  as  ever  any  of  you  young 
lads  with  your  gymnastics  and  clinics." 

Anthony  smiled.  Narrow  old  Uncle  Andrew  might 
be,  and  pedantic  to  a  wearying  degree  when  you  were 
in  a  hurry,  but  he  was  a  good  man.  It  would  be 
rather  a  comfort  to  hear  one  of  old  Uncle  Andrew's 
long,  quotation-larded  stories,  with  their  aroma  of  dead 
languages,  and  their  associations  with  petted  small 
boyhood,  again — here  in  this  place  where  one  had  to 
be  so  continuously  old  and  wise.  .  .  .  Not  that  Uncle 
Andrew  was  a  person  to  look  up  to,  except  for  his 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  53 

kindness  and  sweetness.  As  Andrew  saw  him,  he  was 
the  possessor  of  an  enormous  amount  of  unrelated 
facts  in  a  dozen  languages,  and  of  a  quaint  pride  in 
pouring  them  out  on  any  devoted  head  which  might 
be  near  and  hold  itself  sufficiently  still.  He  had  an 
elderly  buggy  in  which  he  made  pastoral  calls,  and  a 
more  than  elderly  rectory  in  a  small  town  in  Delaware, 
which  was  covered  with  books  everywhere,  except  the 
ceiling.  Uncle  Andrew's  whole  life  was  a  peaceful  and 
amiable  cross-section  of  the  Eighties;  it  seemed  to 
Andrew  Anthony  that  Uncle  Andrew  and  everything 
he  stood  for  were  very  far  removed  from  life  as  it 
actually  was.  He  turned  back  to  his  rooms. 

Uncle  Andrew  was  there,  sure  enough,  sitting  at 
ease  in  the  big  leather-covered  chair,  one  unpressed 
trouser  leg  crossed  over  the  other  knee,  with  his  skull- 
cap and  his  glasses  and  his  peering,  kindly  old  face 
and  his  spotless,  well-bred  shabby  clerical  look. 
He  was  reading  the  "Outline  of  History,"  chuckling 
a  little  as  he  read — doubtless  over  Mr.  Wells' 
views  on  Napoleon,  toward  whom  Uncle  Andrew 
was  quite  amiable.  He  jumped  up  nimbly  when  his 
nephew  came  in. 

"You  didn't  expect  a  visitation,  did  you?"  he  de- 
manded gaily,  in  his  old-man  voice.  "But  my  parish, 
being,  as  I  supposed,  slightly  wearied  of  my  well- 
meant  inquisitions — ha — ha!  That's  what  Dr.  Duryea 
said;  he  said:  'Andrew,  we've  tired  of  you  and  your 
old  anecdotes!  The  parish  has  made  up  a  purse;  now 
get  out  of  this,  and  don't  come  back  till  your  cough 


54  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

is  better!7  And  I  accepted  the  rebuke,  as  I  hope, 
humbly — and  asked  him  if  I  would  be  allowed  to  go 
to  the  great  and  wicked  city  and  see  my  nephew  man- 
aging a  bigger  parish  than  ever  any  of  his  kin  did. 
And  he  said  I  could  go  anywhere  so  long  as  I  didn't 
sit  up  nights  with  the  sick.  I  lay  it  on  you,  Andrew, 
to  see  that  I  don't  sit  up  nights  with  the  sick.  And  so 
I'm  here  for  a  few  days.  After  that  I've  promised 
the  bishop  and  Kincaid  that  I'll  tell  them  how  to  run 
their  jobs  for  a  week  or  so  apiece.  You're  sure  it's 
quite  convenient?  If  it  isn't,  I  can  take  Kincaid  or 
Bishop  Barrington  first.  But  I  wanted  to  see  my 
boy." 

"You  don't  know  how  convenient,  nor  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you! "  said  Anthony.  He  felt  again  the  genu- 
ine loving-kindness  which  always  pervaded  the  longest 
of  Uncle  Andrew's  rambling,  whimsical  speeches,  with 
their  little  touch  of  conscious  picturesqueness.  Well, 
in  his  day  they'd  had  time  for  all  that. 

Anthony  stirred  up  the  Italian  housekeeper,  only 
to  find  she  had  plied  the  old  man  with  much  more 
food  than  was  good  for  him.  Uncle  Andrew  always 
did  get  looked  after,  somehow,  though  he  was  given 
to  forgetting  everything  forgettable,  and  mislaying 
everything  mislayable.  'Nunciata  was  already  trotting 
around  after  him  with  the  glasses  and  pencils  and 
handkerchiefs  which  he  had  left  in  a  trail  behind  him. 

Anthony  took  his  uncle  down  to  an  amateur  per- 
formance of  "The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire"  and  left 
him  in  the  front  row,  making  friends  by  means  of 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  55 

long-winded  and  sincere  praises  of  the  performers  to 
their  relatives,  among  whom  he  was  planted.  It  was 
all  so  innocent  and  so  simple  that  when  Anthony 
passed  downstairs  from  the  gallery  where  his  uncle 
sat  to  the  less  desirable  seats  where  the  staff  was 
watching,  and  was  recalled  to  his  problem  by  the  sight 
of  Phoebe,  with  an  adoring  Italian  flapper  on  one  side, 
and  John  Angelo's  graceful  figure  on  the  other,  it  was 
a  shock  like  waking  up.  He  did  not  think  that  Angelo 
was  making  actual  love  to  Phoebe.  But  he  could  hear 
the  two  Voices,  both  eager,  both  happy,  both  intent, 
and  see  the  man's  dusky,  handsome  face  looking  down 
into  Phoebe's  lovely  little  one,  as  if  they  two  were  the 
only  people  in  the  room. 

"And  on  the  shores  of  that  lake,"  he  heard  Angelo 
saying  raptly,  "it  is  all  one  wash  of  pure  deep  color 
at  twilight.  One  could  stand  there  alone,  or  with  just 
one  person  who  could  understand  too — " 

No — poor  Fiammetta  could  not  understand  about 
washes  of  pure  deep  color,  nor  could  she  stand  there 
with  him  at  twilight  and  help  him  understand. 

She  was  just  an  honest,  earthly,  loving  creature 
John  had  outgrown.  .  .  .  Not  so  loving! 

As  Andrew  Anthony  passed,  sick  at  heart,  out  the 
doorway,  Fiammetta  caught  his  arm. 

"Do  you  see?"  she  whispered.  "I  tell  you,  if  you 
do  not  stop  him,  make  him  come  back  to  me,  I  will 
be  able  to  bear  it  quietly  no  longer." 

Fiammetta  had  not  been  bearing  it,  in  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  sense,  at  all  quietly.  Anthony  did  not  like  the 


56  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

implied  threat.  He  would  have  to  do  something  with 
one  or  the  other  of  them. 

Uncle  Andrew  chattered  happily  afterward  about 
the  play,  and  the  people  he  had  talked  to.  He  had 
already  sent  word  to  Father  Doughty  by  a  canny 
daughter  of  Calabria,  who  managed  to  keep  a  foot  in 
both  churches,  that  he  was  here,  and  the  father  would 
be  dropping  in  to  see  him  next  day. 

Anthony  tried  to  be  interested  and  courteous,  but 
the  tangle  that  faced  him  made  him  distrait.  If  Uncle 
Andrew's  wise  old  astigmatic  eyes  saw  anything  be- 
hind their  owlish  glasses,  he  made  no  sign  of  it. 

Andrew  lay  awake  most  of  the  night. 

How  could  he  interfere?  As  man  to  man,  he  hadn't 
the  right.  And  yet  things  were  getting  dangerous. 
Fiammetta  was  a  wild  animal  under  her  blue  serge 
suit.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  could  induce  Phoebe  to  stay 
away  .  .  .  and  yet,  even  that — wasn't  it  because  he 
secretly  wanted  to  keep  her  from  Angelo  for  his  own 
selfish  reasons?  .  .  . 

Uncle  Andrew  had  been  established  in  the  sitting 
room,  next  the  study.  To  him  were  foregathered  in 
the  afternoon,  not  only  Father  Doughty,  but,  later, 
old  Major  Briggs,  whom  it  appeared  Uncle  Andrew 
had  run  into  after  the  major  had  finished  his  Salva- 
tion Army  meeting  the  night  before. 

They  were  a  contrast,  Anthony  thought  as  he  passed 
the  door!  Uncle  Andrew's  lean  height  and  half-precise, 
half-picturesque  old  figure,  his  caped  coat  about  him 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  57 

because  of  Annunciata's  fussing  over  a  draft,  little 
Major  Briggs'  intense  little  ordinary  weather-beaten 
face  with  its  straggling  sandy  mustache,  and  Father 
Doughty's  suave  Irish  bulk  and  twinkling-eyed  geni- 
ality. 

And  yet  there  was  a  something  identical  on  all  three 
old  faces,  otherwise  so  different.  Anthony  could  not 
place  it  quite,  but  it  was  there,  even  while  they  laughed 
together,  light-heartedly,  as  old  men  may,  over  a  tale 
of  the  father's.  It  was  a  something  which  made  An- 
thony feel  left  out  some  way. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  because  he  was  young,  with  a 
great  deal  of  his  suffering  still  to  do,  while  they  were 
too  old  to  have  the  realities  of  life  still  hurting  them. 

When  he  returned  to  await  the  Angelos  they  were 
still  there.  The  three  old  heads  were  close  together, 
and  Uncle  Andrew  was  telling  a  story  now. 

"It  took  ten  years,"  he  was  saying  matter-of-factly. 
"He  wouldn't  even  discuss  it  for  five.  But  he  knew  I 
was  praying  for  him.  After  he  had  the  stroke  he 
seemed  to  want  to  see  me.  The  last  year  he  was 
eager.  But  he  asked  for  baptism  a  month  before  he 
died;  and  I  have  never  seen  more  wonderful  faith  in 
God  than  he  showed  up  to  the  very  end.  He  suffered 
a  good  deal,  too — but  I  have  never  seen  any  one  hap- 
pier. It  was  wonderful  to  see  him  so  close  to  God, 
after  fighting  so  long." 

The  others  nodded,  and  Major  Briggs  began  to  tell 
a  story — evidently  of  the  same  sort.  Anthony  went 


58  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

silently  from  the  door.  He  had  placed  the  look  now. 
It  was  assurance — shining,  steady  assurance.  They 
knew  something.  .  .  . 

Anthony  sat  still  under  the  portrait  of  old  confident, 
portly  Bishop  West,  and  waited  for  Fiammetta  and 
John  Angelo.  When  they  came  there  was  a  look  of 
triumph  on  Fiammetta's  face  at  having  brought  John 
up  to  be  dealt  with,  which  Anthony  thought  would 
have  annoyed  most  men,  even  if  they  were  not  as 
high-strung  as  John. 

He  looked  annoyed — almost  sullen.  She  had  prob- 
ably half  undone  any  work  Anthony  might  do  by  re- 
proaches or  boasts  of  Anthony's  partizanship,  as  they 
came  along. 

The  very  contrast  of  them  seemed  to  point  to  the 
hopelessness  of  any  understanding  between  them. 

John  spoke  first — a  little  stiffly.  "I  understand  you 
summoned  us,  Mr.  Anthony?" 

"It's  not  a  question  of  summons,  John.  It's  a 
question  of  something  that  I  think  we  ought  to  talk 
over  before  you  take  any  decisive  step.  As  man  to 
man.  ...  It  might  be  better,  perhaps,  without  Fiam- 
metta." 

"No!"  said  Fiammetta  doggedly.  "This  is  my  sor- 
row. I  will  know  what  is  said  of  me." 

Anthony  went  straight  to  the  point:  "John,  I  under- 
stand you  want  to  divorce  Fiammetta  and  remarry. 
Now,  that  isn't  fair  to  Fiammetta.  She's  been  a  good 
wife  to  you;  she's  worked  hard,  and  I  believe  helped 
you  a  good  deal  in  your  effort  to  get  where  you  are. 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  59 

It's  going  to  hurt  her  a  whole  lot.  With  her  attitude 
to  life  and  her  beliefs  in  general,  there  will  be  no  life 
left  for  her.  Won't  you,  at  least,  defer  any  action — 
think  it  over  for  a  few  months  more?" 

John  answered  him  unbendingly:  "I  have  thought 
over  everything  you  have  said  for  much  more  than  a 
few  months.  I  have  deferred  action  for  a  long  time. 
I  can't  see  anything  to  do  but  this.  Fiammetta  and 
I  had  grown  too  far  apart  ever  to  come  together  again, 
long  before  I  thought  of  remarrying.  She  is  being 
hurt  now  by  the  fact  of  our  relations  being  what  they 
are,  more  than  she  can  possibly  be  after  I  am  gone 
from  her.  As  for  my  marriage,  that — pardon  me — 
is  surely  my  own  affair?" 

Blank  wall.  Anthony  had  spoken  as  man  to  man; 
as  man  to  man  John  Angelo  had  answered  him.  There 
seemed  no  way  to  break  through  the  wall;  neverthe- 
less he  essayed  again.  "]ohny  we've  been  good 
friends  ever  since  I  came  down  here.  I've  always 
done  what  I  could  to  help  you  on  the  career  you've 
done  so  splendidly  with.  My  advice  has  always  been 
pretty  good — I  think  you'll  admit  that.  And  now  I 
advise  you  that  you're  doing  the  wrong  thing.  You're 
not  living  according  to  the  right  ideals — the  ideals 
that  have  carried  you  so  far  already." 

Angelo's  eyes  flashed.  "I  am  making  two  lives 
straighter,  and  leaving  one  no  worse  than  it  is  now," 
he  said. 

Fiammetta  was  sobbing  stormily  into  the  skirt  of 
her  suit,  as  if  it  had  been  an  apron. 


60  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

Anthony  went  on  pleading;  but  it  was  all  of  no  use. 
The  very  quietness  with  which  the  other  man  took  it 
all  showed  that  he  was  far  beyond  being  touched  by 
any  argument.  As  for  Phoebe's  name,  that  was  skirted 
sacredly  by  both  of  them.  And  Anthony,  always 
sensitive  to  the  fact  of  his  own  love  for  Phoebe,  felt 
himself  bound  in  honor  not  to  struggle  as  he  would 
have  struggled  to  keep  them  apart.  .  .  .  And  the  end 
was  the  usual  end  of  all  such  arguments;  Fiammetta 
lost  her  fragile  self-control  and  stormed  at  both  of 
them  impartially. 

"You  call  yourself  a  priest!"  she  told  Anthony  fin- 
ally. "You  are  no  priest.  A  priest  would  say  to 
John:  'You  are  sinning!  You  must  love  your  wife!' 
You  say:  'As  man  to  man!'  What  good  is  that? 
What  good — oh,  what  good  is  anything!"  She  ended 
in  another  burst  of  weeping. 

Angelo  looked  at  his  rector.  "This  is  what  you  ex- 
pect of  me!"  the  look  said.  "Come,  Fiammetta,"  was 
all  he  said  aloud,  and  followed  her  out. 

Anthony  flung  himself  forward  on  the  study  table, 
sick  at  heart.  He  buried  his  head  in  his  arms.  He 
felt  like  echoing  Fiammetta's  "What  good  is  any- 
thing?" 

And  yet — and  yet  what  more  could  he  do — what 
more,  as  a  man  and  a  gentleman,  could  he  have  done? 

He  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder,  and  looked  up  into 
his  uncle's  face.  But  on  that  face  was  not  pity,  not 
sympathy — but  contempt. 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  61 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Andrew!"  said  his  Uncle 
Andrew  sternly. 

"You  wouldn't  understand,"  said  Andrew  out  of 
the  depths  of  his  failure  and  suffering.  "I  can't  force 
dogma  on  them.  I  haven't  it." 

The  old  man  whirled  on  him  as  fierily  as  poor  Fiam- 
metta  had  done. 

"Dogma!"  he  cried.  "Who  asked  you  to  have 
dogma?  I'm  not  talking  about  dogma.  What  I'm 
talking  about  is  belief — belief  in  God,  belief  in  your- 
self, belief  that  you  were  put  here  to  guide,  not  only 
these  poor  fools'  bodies,  but  their  souls — or  if  you 
don't  believe  in  souls,  their  morals.  What  I'm 
ashamed  of  about  you,  Andrew  Anthony,  is  that  you 
don't  know  your  own  business,  which  is  leadership. 
You  don't  believe  in  yourself.  You  apparently  don't 
believe  God  put  you  here — I  don't  know  that  you  even 
believe  the  vestry  called  you!  What  business  have 
you  to  be  at  the  head  of  a  parish  of  human  beings? 
Their  morals  are  more  your  business  than  their  skins 
and  teeth.  You  don't  think  that  if  you  keep  a  dog 
clean  and  healthy  you're  absolved  from  teaching  him 
to  keep  his  bones  out  of  the  parlor.  You  are  wrong- 
ing these  human  beings.  You  treat  them  worse  than 
you  would  the  dog." 

"  You  don't  understand.  It's  more  complicated 
than  that,"  faltered  Andrew,  sitting  up  and  facing 
the  old  man.  "I  don't  know  how  much  you  heard. 
But — the  girl  this  man  cares  for  happens  to  be  a  girl 


62  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

I — care  for — too.    How  can  I  be  sure  that  my  motives 
are  decent,  if  I  press  him  to  stay  with  his  wife?" 

His  anguished,  earnest  young  face  pleaded  fpr 
compassion,  but  his  uncle  did  not  give  it. 

"You  don't  have  to  be/'  he  answered  uncompro- 
misingly. "Great  guns,  boy,  don't  you  know  how 
to  be  a  minister  of  God?  You  have  nothing  what- 
ever to  do,  in  your  private  capacity,  with  guiding 
these  people  in  your  capacity  as  their  leader  and 
clergyman.  Your  private  feelings  don't  matter.  They 
wouldn't  matter  if  they  were  tied  up  with  the  man's 
wife.  They  don't  matter  as  it  is.  That's  plain  ego- 
tism. You  don't  count.  .  .  .  Good  heavens,  if  any 
of  you  boys  of  the  younger  generation,  with  all 
your  splendid  capacities  for  service,  had  half  the 
faith  in  yourselves  and  your  mission  to  lead  that 
any  little  Bolshevik  leader  has,  you'd  hold  the  world 
steady!  You  don't  know  this,  and  don't  know  that; 
and  you  haven't  any  faith  in  the  God  back  of  you. 
You're  trying  to  do  it  on  your  own  hook." 

Anthony  had  forgotten  his  hurt.  He  was  staring 
at  old  Uncle  Andrew's  sternly  lighted  face.  All  the 
old  man's  easy  whimsicality  had  dropped  like  a  mask, 
showing  the  prophet  behind. 

"You  are  in  a  position  of  authority,"  his  uncle  went 
on  sternly.  "You  must  do  one  of  two  things.  Either 
believe  that  you  have  been  put  here  to  guide  these 
people,  believe  that  God  did  it,  believe  in  yourself, 
and  do  it,  with  all  the  faith  and  selflessness  and  com- 
mon sense  you've  got,  or — quit.  The  woman  was  right. 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  63 

You  have  no  business  to  deal  as  man  to  man,  or  man 
to  woman,  with  your  flock.  You  are  God's  minister 
to  them.  If  you  can't  believe  that  and  make  them 
believe  it,  go  and  manage  a  secular  settlement  house 
somewhere.  I  hear  you  do  it  very  well." 

Andrew  put  up  his  hand.  "That'll  do,  uncle,"  he 
said.  "You've  said  enough.  You're  right.  I've  failed. 
I — I  suppose  I  had  forgotten  God." 

But  his  uncle  was  not  through  with  him.  "That 
being  the  case,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  You  can't 
leave  this  thing  at  loose  ends,  any  more  than  a  doctor 
could  a  case." 

Anthony  rose  wearily.  "I — I  don't  know.  I  sup- 
pose I  can  act,  as  you  said,  without  considering  my 
own  part  of  the  affair,  inasmuch  as  I'm — quitting," 

The  old  man  touched  him  gently  on  the  shoulder. 
"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  boy.  Many  a  man  has  mis- 
taken his  vocation  for  a  while  before  this." 

Anthony  sat  thinking  after  his  uncle  had  gone 
out.  .  .  .  Belief  in  God's  appointment  of  him  over 
these  people,  belief  in  himself,  selflessness,,  common 
sense — he  had  none  of  these,  but  he  could  at  least  act 
as  if  he  had  them,  for  the  little  while  before  his  resig- 
nation was  accepted. 

He  went  to  Angelo  the  next  day.  He  did  not 
plead,  or  argue  as  man  to  man.  He  ordered. 

"You've  been  behaving  in  a  way  that's  wrong  in  the 
sight  of  God,"  he  said  briefly.  "You  and  I  both  be- 
lieve in  some  sort  of  God,  anyway,  and  we  know 
that's  so.  You're  to  stop.  You're  to  take  poor  little 


64  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

Fiammetta  out  to  that  place  by  the  side  of  a  lake, 
where  you  and  she  can  be  alone  together.  You're 
to  stop  feeling  that  she  isn't  American  enough  for 
you.  You  fell  in  love  with  her  when  she  was  Italian; 
let  her  stay  Italian,  not  try  to  be  what  she  can't. 
You're  to  stop  thinking  of  the  other  woman  as  your 
wife.  You'd  no  more  be  happy  with  her  than  Fiam- 
metta  is  with  you — there's  more  fundamental  differ- 
ence of  viewpoint  between  you  and  Phoebe  Rocking- 
ham  than  ever  will  be  between  you  and  Fiammetta. 
You  can  paint  out  there.  You'll  be  away  from  this 
city  life  that  you  Italians  aren't  used  to.  You'll  have 
a  fair  chance  of  happiness." 

He  was  violating  every  rule  he  had  ever  laid  down 
for  himself  in  the  conduct  of  his  parish.  But  he  had 
to  straighten  this  thing  out — in  the  name  of  God,  he 
had  to  straighten  it  out.  He  no  longer  counted.  He 
did  not  know  what  would  happen.  What  did  happen 
was  amazing;  Giovanni  Angelo  poured  forth  a  flood 
of  half-mad  angry  words;  impossible  things,  vulgar 
things,  brutal  things — a  harmless  enough  performance 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  angry  Sicilian  peasant. 
But — this  thing  might  have  happened  some  day  to 
Phoebe — this  impossible  thing.  His  way  was  clear 
from  then.  He  went  on  quietly,  using  the  weapon  he 
knew  would  be  most  effective,  without  any  scruple: 

"If  you  do  not  take  Fiammetta  and,  without  any 
backward  look,  try  to  be  happy  with  her  out  in  that 
place,  wherever  it  is,  which  I  heard  you  picturing  to 
Miss  Rockingham,  I  will  see  to  it  that  the  patrons 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  65 

we  have  interested  in  you  and  your  art  are  interested 
no  more.  I  will  shut  you  off  from  everything  that 
makes  your  success  and  happiness  if  you  do  not  obey 
me.  Now  choose,  and  choose  quickly." 

He  stood  in  Angelo's  little  room,  outwardly  immov- 
able. Angelo,  flushed,  hysterical,  walked  the  floor 
clenching  and  unclenching  his  hands,  and  pouring  forth 
a  flood  of  words  partly  in  Italian  and  partly  in  Eng- 
lish, addressed,  it  seemed,  sometimes  to  himself — 
sometimes  angrily  to  Anthony.  The  tension  of  it 
seemed  eternal.  He  was  stringing  himself  up  higher 
and  higher.  Anthony  thought  he  would  never  stop. 

Suddenly  something  in  Angelo  broke,  and  he  flung 
himself  prone  on  the  floor  in  a  flood  of  tears;  angry, 
loud  sobs.  And  when  Anthony  bent  over  him  and  put 
one  hand  on  his  shoulder  he  struck  it  off,  sprang  up 
passionately  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Andrew  Anthony  went  back  to  his  own  place,  feel- 
ing that  he  had  failed.  He  did  not  want  to  see  any 
one  in  the  world,  he  felt.  He  wished  he  need  never 
face  Uncle  Andrew,  in  particular,  again.  But  Uncle 
Andrew  no  more  and  no  less  scholarly  and  conversa- 
tional and  amiable  than  usual,  was  not  hard  to  meet 
after  all. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  Anthony  realized  that  he 
had  been  talking  interestedly  of  his  childhood,  and  the 
old  rectory  in  Germantown,  of  wardens  and  wardens' 
wives  long  dead,  and  children  long  grown  up  and  scat- 
tered, and  that  it  had  done  him  good.  He  had  stopped 
for  an  hour  the  eternal  facing  of  the  situation,  and  he 


66  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

had  strength  for  his  next  step,  which  was  to  deal,  as 
minister  to  one  of  his  flock  in  need  of  ministry,  with 
Phoebe  Rockingham,  with  whom  he  was  deeply  in  love. 
If  he  only  needn't,  unfit  as  he  was  for  his  work;  if 
he  could  only  quit  now  instead  of  after  he  had  seen 
the  vestry — 

But  perhaps  he  did  not  deal  the  worse  with  her  for 
having  no  hope  and  no  future,  though  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  done  it  ruinously,  when,  heart-sick 
and  aghast,  he  went  out  from  the  classroom  where 
she  had  been  awaiting  some  of  her  girls. 

At  the  first  few  words  her  cheeks  burned  scarlet, 
and  her  soft  lips  closed  tight. 

He  had  hurt  her  pride  horribly,  he  could  see  that. 
It  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  tell  a  woman  that  she 
must  stop  having  anything  to  do  with  another  man, 
and  why.  She  said  very  little,  as  he  blundered,  relent- 
lessly on — scarcely  more,  indeed,  than  "Is  that  all?" 
when  he  had  finished,  and  "I  think  you  are  wrong 
about  John  Angelo.  I  am  sure  he  is  a  good  and  very 
wonderful  man."  After  that,  she  made  him  feel,  his 
audience  was  over. 

He  went  out,  baffled,  knowing  less,  he  felt,  of 
Phcebe  Rockingham  than  he  ever  had.  Yet  of  one 
thing  he  was  sure:  she  was  perfectly  innocent,  per- 
fectly noble.  If  she  could  go  on  believing  in  Angelo, 
it  was  because  she  did  not  think  any  one  could  be 
otherwise  than  as  good  as  his  highest  belief  in  him- 
self. And  yet — 

No  one  knew  where  the  Angelos  were.     No  one 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  67 

knew  where  Phcebe  Rockingham  was.  All  that  there 
was  to  it  was  that  Miss  Rockingham  had  said  that  she 
couldn't  come  down  any  more.  Got  tired  of  it,  like 
most  volunteers:  that  was  the  paid  workers'  verdict 
on  it.  As  for  the  Angelos,  there  had  been  a  scene  that 
was  worse  than  usual,  and  Angelo  had  gone  away. 
Later  Fiammetta  had  talked  with  the  priest,  and  the 
old  gentleman  who  was  his  friend  and  some  other 
kind  of  priest — but,  oh,  a  priest  of  the  most  good — one 
could  see  that!  and  that  was  the  last  known.  Andrew 
Anthony,  white  and  forcedly  cheerful,  went  among  his 
flock  as  he  had  never  gone  before,  helping,  consoling, 
toiling  harder  than  even  the  little  old  Salvationist. 

All  he  knew  was  that  his  uncle  said  Fiammetta 
had  come  and  talked  to  him.  He  had  advised  her  to 
go  home  and  try  once  more  for  a  reconciliation  with 
her  husband,  and  ordered  her  to  stop  talking.  She 
had  said  she  would. 

Andrew  Anthony  called  a  meeting  of  the  vestry 
the  following  week.  They  were  strong-faced,  intent 
men  of  affairs  all;  men  of  the  uptown  church  of  which 
the  Memorial  Church  was  an  offshoot  bigger  than  the 
parent.  As  Andrew  Anthony  faced  them,  he  despaired 
of  making  them  understand.  He  had  done  well  by 
their  work.  He  had  made  it  show  results.  They  would 
think  he  was  a  quitter.  Well,  that  wasn't  his  affair. 
He,  who  had  never  run  the  church  as  if  he  was  a  min- 
ister of  God,  had  no  right  to  stay  there.  It  was  for 
him  to  tell  them  so,  and  leave. 

"I've  called  you  together  to  offer  you  my  resigna^ 


68  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

tion,"  he  began  abruptly.  "I'm  going  to  give  you  my 
reasons  for  it,  as  they've  been  burned  into  me  in  the 
last  fortnight;  and  then,  as  soon  as  you  can  make 
arrangements  for  my  successor,  I'm  quitting  the 
ministry." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  surprise,  and  he  could  hear 
a  little  rustling  and  stiffening  to  attention. 

"We  shall  be  sorry  to  let  you  go,"  said  old  Mr. 
Vanderweyde  weightily,  looking  up  from  under  his 
bushy  eyebrows.  He  was  senior  warden.  "You  have 
done  a  splendid  work  with  the  Memorial.  I  think  I 
speak  for  the  whole  vestry  in  hoping  that  you  will 
not  act  hastily." 

There  was  a  nodding  and  murmured  assent  from  the 
others.  Then  they  waited  for  Anthony  to  speak  again. 

He  felt  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  making 
these  men,  whose  lives  had  been  given  to  practical 
affairs  and  worldly  things,  understand  even  what  he 
meant.  But  nevertheless  it  had  to  be  said. 

"I've  been  running  this  church  as  a  business  ven- 
ture," he  began.  "I've  tried  to  run  it  successfully. 
From  a  business  standpoint,  I  have.  Till  last  week  I 
thought  I  was  a  wonder  at  it.  I  thought  the  old  idea 
about  being  a  shepherd  and  a  leader  and  a  father  to 
your  flock  was  sentimental  nonsense.  I  haven't  a 
doubt  that  most  of  you  remember  my  saying  smugly: 
'I  do  not  arrogate  to  myself  authority.  I  am  a  brother 
to  these  people — a  seeker.' 

"Well,  I  was  wrong.     I  wasn't  even  a  seeker.    I 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  69 

didn't  believe  there  was  a  thing  to  seek — I  thought  I 
had  it  all  here;  I  thought  that  a  decreased  death  rate 
in  the  district,  and  a  decrease  in  crime  statistics,  and 
a  child  or  two  given  a  chance  at  violin  lessons,  made 
up  the  sum  of  all  there  was  to  do. 

"I've  learned  better.  I've  been  faced  with  the 
necessity  to  lay  down  laws  for  the  spiritual  and  moral 
guidance  of  these  people.  And  I  have  found  that 
the  things  the  Bible's  full  of  are  facts,  not  picturesque 
phrases.  The  life  is  more  than  meat,  and  the  body 
more  than  raiment.  My  people  have  needed  what  I 
cannot  give  them.  Somebody  else  may.  That's  why 
I'm  resigning/' 

The  ice-blue  eyes  and  heavy  white  face  of  another 
of  the  vestry  turned  toward  him. 

"We  cannot  agree  with  you  as  to  the  lack  of  neces- 
sity for  a  lowered  death  rate  and  crime  rate,"  he  said 
a  little  sharply. 

"This  ought  I  to  have  done'9  said  Andrew  Anthony, 
"and  not  left  the  other  undone" 

"You  are  under — perhaps — a  little  nervous  strain," 
said  old  Mr.  Vanderweyde  soothingly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  am,  and  no  wonder.  I'm  facing 
the  fact  that  I  haven't  believed  in  myself  or  in  God;' 
and  that  when  the  time  came  for  me  to  enforce  spirit- 
ual and  moral  laws,  my  people  wouldn't  accept  my 
leadership.  They  were  willing  enough,  as  the  woman 
in  the  case  told  me,  to  accept  a  religion  made  up  of 
taking  baths  and  learning  English!  God  gave  the 


70  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

leadership  of  these  people  into  my  hands,  and  I  have 
been  a  false  shepherd.  I  have  failed  Him,  and  failed 
the  church,  and  made  it  fail  by  so  much.  I — I  am 
going.  That  is  all.  I  shall  mail  you  my  formal  resig- 
nation." 

He  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

He  walked  the  city  streets  that  night  till  nearly 
morning.  The  thing  was  done.  And  now  that  it  was 
done,  all  the  regrets  and  griefs  he  had  not  known 
himself  to  have,  rushed  over  him.  For  a  little  while 
even  the  terror  and  uncertainty  about  Phoebe  faded 
before  the  awful  sense  he  had  of  loss  of  vocation. 
Now  that  he  had  given  it  up,  he  knew  how  deeply 
the  love  of  ministry  was  in  his  soul.  By  ancestry  and 
training  and  vocation  he  was  a  priest,  a  member  of 
the  profession  which  locks  its  sons  to  it  with  a  deeper 
love  than  any  in  the  world;  which  leaves  something 
lost  and  miserable  in  their  souls  to  the  end  of  their 
days  if  they  forsake  it. 

He  did  not  know  it,  but  his  people  looked  at  him 
with  a  new  reverence  as  he  went  through  the  succeed- 
ing days,  waiting  till  his  resignation  should  be  formally 
accepted.  He  was  suffering  so  much  that  he  had  no 
time  left  to  think  how  they  thought  of  him,  or  indeed  to 
think  of  himself  at  all.  All  he  could  think  of  was 
Phoebe,  when  the  quiet  tying  up  of  loose  ends  gave  him 
a  moment  to  think  of  anything  outside  of  the  Memorial 
Church.  He  had  telephoned  her  house  uptown,  only 
to  be  told  that  Miss  Rockingham  was  away,  and  they 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  71 

did  not  know  when  she  would  return.  The  tone  of 
the  maid  who  answered  him — he  imagined — was  re- 
pressive, as  if  she  had  been  given  exact  orders  what 
to  tell  people.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  uncle,  An- 
thony would,  he  felt,  scarcely  have  had  the  courage  to 
go  through  what  he  was  going  through.  He  clung 
to  him  as  if  he  were  a  little  boy  again.  They  only 
talked  to  each  other  of  surface  things.  Anthony  did 
not  feel  as  if  he  could  stand  anything  else. 

Only  once  Uncle  Andrew  referred  to  anything  that 
had  passed.  "I  wouldn't  worry  about  Miss  Rocking- 
ham,"  he  said.  "I  am  sure  she  is  safe,  wherever  she 
is,  and  good.  I  know  you  can  trust  her." 

There  was  such  a  certainty  in  his  uncle's  voice  that 
Anthony's  fears,  for  the  time,  were  quieted.  .  .  . 

He  had  come  to  the  point  of  determining  to  go  to 
her  people  and  ask  about  her,  and,  if  he  had  no  satis- 
faction, taking  steps  to  have  her  traced,  when,  one 
afternoon  nearly  at  the  end  of  his  time  for  staying, 
he  had  a  short  note  from  her. 

"We  didn't  finish  talking,"  it  said.  "Will  you  meet 
me  at  Grand  Central  this  afternoon  and  go  out  in  the 
train,  and  finish  what  you  were  saying?" 

The  relief  was  nearly  agony.  Yet  it  might  mean  the 
worst  as  well  as  the  best.  He  knew  where  to  meet 
her.  They  had  made  all-afternoon  excursions  into 
the  country  before  this,  though  it  had  usually  been 
with  a  bodyguard  of  small  children. 

She  was  just  herself,  flushed,  slim,  and  childlike, 


73  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

waving  to  him  gaily  from  the  usual  place  of  meeting 
in  the  great  station.  In  the  delight  of  seeing  her  again 
he  forget  to  ask  her  anything;  their  hands  clung  to- 
gether and  they  laughed  like  children. 

She  laughed  still  as  they  rode  out  together.  "I  have 
a  surprise,"  she  said.  "Something  wonderful!  But 
I  forgot — I  mustn't  tell  you.  I  promised  not." 

His  heart  made  one  of  its  agonizing  leaps,  and  he 
found  himself  flung  into  terror  again.  But  he  would 
trust  her.  He  wotdd. 

But  they  had  an  hour  of  wandering  in  the  spring 
woods  before  they  came  to  anything  but  buds  and 
young  leaves  and  an  occasional  bird  or  squirrel.  An- 
thony enjoyed  himself  because  of  her  presence,  with 
a  desperate  holding  fast  to  the  present  minute.  There 
might  never  be  any  more  minutes  like  it.  ...  And 
at  last  they  came  to  a  little  brook,  and  followed  its 
course  up  to  a  low  gray  stone  wall. 

"Look!"  Phoebe  said.  A  flash  of  color  darted 
through  the  wood  beyond  the  wall,  and  Fiammetta 
Angelo  ran  to  them,  flinging  her  hands  abroad  to 
them  both,  with  a  burst  of  rapid  greeting.  She  was  a 
transformed  being.  She  was  dressed  in  the  costume 
of  her  own  country,  and  her  cheeks  were  bright  and 
her  skin  brown  with  living  outdoors.  Presently  An- 
thony became  aware,  through  his  bewilderment,  that 
she  was  asking  his  pardon  for  being  so  rude  to  him 
before,  and  thanking  him — oh,  but  ten  thousand 
grateful  thanks!  And  they  had  obeyed  him,  and  done 


AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY  73 

as  the  old  gentleman  he  sent  to  them  had  said,  and 
they  were  so  happy  in  the  country,  and  Giovanni  had 
painted  already  the  most  wonderful  picture!  And 
finally  Phoebe — with  almost  as  many  and  as  happy 
words — drew  him  on.  "We  didn't  want  to  tell  you  till 
we  were  sure  it  was  going  to  work  permanently," 
she  was  saying  as  they  sped  back  to  the  city.  ''But 
it  really  does  work.  I  was  angry  with  you  at  first. 
You  thought  things  of  me  that  I — I  didn't  like. 
But  I  went  away  to  my  cousin's  place  a  little  while, 
and  thought  about  it.  And  you  were  right.  I'm  too 
young  to  be  running  around  institutional  churches 
without  a  keeper." 

The  eager  words  on  his  lips  were  checked  by  the 
vision  of  Uncle  Andrew,  waving  them  eagerly  at  the 
station  gate  with  his  umbrella. 

"Did  you  see  them?  Now  aren't  you  glad  your  old 
uncle  blew  you  up?"  he  demanded  eagerly. 

Anthony  grasped  his  uncle's  hand.  With  this  won- 
derful new  hope  he  could  almost  forget  the  revelation 
of  his  own  unfitness  that  meant  that  West  Memorial 
was  his  no  longer. 

"Glad—"  he  said  unsteadily.  "Even  if  I  have  to 
start  all  over  again — " 

The  two  eager  creatures  beside  him  cried  out,  and 
Uncle  Andrew  laughed. 

"I  left  the  vestry,  headed  by  Jimmy  Vanderweyde, 
kneeling  at  my  feet  in  rows  like  the  peers  proposing 
to  lolanthe,"  he  said.  "They  won't  take  no  for  an 


74  AS  ONE  HAVING  AUTHORITY 

answer.  ...  I  don't  see  why  they  need  to  have  it  for 
an  answer  myself.  YouVe  won  your  spurs,  boy." 

Andrew  Anthony  looked  at  Phoebe.  Her  little  warm 
hand  came  down  intimately  on  his  arm,  and  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  vivid  certainty  in  her  face. 

"Indeed — indeed  you  have,  Andrew,"  she  said. 


WILD  WOODLAND 

DR.  BLANTON  enjoyed,  as  he  did  most  things  in  life, 
being  shown  over  the  settlement-church:  but  his  po- 
litest endeavors  could  not  conceal  from  his  nephew 
that  the  people  in  it,  workers  and  benefited  alike, 
interested  him  fatally  more  than  methods  or  appa- 
ratus. It  was  a  little  trying  to  have  him  ignore  the 
pride  of  Phoebe's  life,  the  swimming-pool,  in  favor  of 
a  small  and  very  soiled  child  on  its  brink  who  would 
not  believe  that  it  was  best  to  be  washed  before  you 
went  swimming;  it  was  almost  more  than  trying  to 
find  him  discoursing  in  the  middle  of  the  library  about 
a  fine  bit  of  incunabula  found  in  a  Memphis  settle- 
ment house — presented,  according  to  his  leisurely  tale, 
by  a  grateful  Nuremburg  Jew  who  could  not  read. 

"It  was  very  instructive,"  said  Uncle  Andrew  with 
innocent  pride.  "I  went  on  the  principle  that  some- 
where in  that  ancestry  had  been  scholarship,  as  the 
book  had  always  been  in  the  family's  possession — 
even  though  that  family  was  sunk  in  illiteracy  now. 
People  do  not  believe  enough  in  heredity,  my  dear 
children.  And  sure  enough,  the  second  daughter  .  .  ." 

She  was  now  an  authority  on  Greek  texts,  it  ap- 
peared; but  they  switched  him  to  the  filing-system, 
where  slim,  blue-eyed  Silence  Everington  was  wait- 
ing alertly  for  them.  But  his  reaction: 

75 


76  WILD  WOODLAND 

"Miss  Everington  is  either  a  New  Englander  or  a 
Virginian  of  practically  pure  English  stock,  isn't  she? 
She  gives  me  the  impression  of  having  something  on 
her  mind.  You  wouldn't  object  to  humoring  my  in- 
quisitiveness  to  the  extent  of  having  her  to  tea  this 
afternoon,  would  you,  my  dear  Phoebe?" 

Phoebe  squeezed  Dr.  Blanton's  hand. 

"There's  no  use  worrying  you — you  shall  see  what 
you  want  to  see,  and  if  you  want  to  watch  the  wheels 
go  round  in  Silence  instead  of  in  the  Settlement,  why, 
you  shall!  Only  there  aren't  any.  The  Settlement 
is  the  only  thing  she  ever  loved — I'm  sorry  to  say. 
Nothing  else  has  a  look  in." 

Uncle  Andrew  pulled  his  little  pointed  beard  and 
looked  wise. 

"I  judge,  from  your  connotation  of  accent,  that 
something  or  rather  some  one  else  does  want — a  slight 
glance  within,  did  you  say?" 

Phoebe  clapped  her  hands.  She  had  the  gestures  of 
enthusiasm  which  become  second  nature  to  settlement 
workers. 

"You  shall  see!    I  will  produce  it  this  afternoon." 

"It"  proved  to  be  a  tall,  grave,  excellently  man- 
nered man  named  Nicholas  Venino;  at  sight  of  whom 
Silence  Everington  looked  at  Phoebe  with  reproach. 
He  had  gray  eyes,  he  spoke  perfect  English,  and  it 
came  out  incidentally  in  the  conversation  that  he  had 
gone  through  Columbia  and  was  doing  very  well  in 
business.  Apparently  these  facts  did  not  have  much 
interest  for  Uncle  Andrew;  he  was  more  absorbed  in 


WILD  WOODLAND  77 

talking  ethics  and  politics  with  him,  and  watching  Sil- 
ence Everington. 

"I  like  that  boy,"  he  said  to  her,  when  Venino  was 
gone.  "He  seems  to  have  standards;  which,  of  course, 
are  more  necessary  than  collegiate  education,  though 
it  isn't  fashionable  to  say  so." 

"Yes.  He  has  very  high  standards,"  said  Silence 
stiffly.  She  flushed  a  little,  and  went  on  talking,  as 
if  she  thought  she  had  been  too  constrained  and 
wanted  not  to  seem  so.  "He  is  really  a  wonderful 
man.  He  was  a  Memorial  child.  He  came  here  all 
by  himself,  they  say,  not  even  sent  by  his  mother; 
and  used  all  the  help  he  got  here  very  efficiently.  He 
put  himself  through  college.  He  helps  the  Italians 
down  here  a  great  deal;  tries  to  shake  them  out  of  their 
ideas  about — well — " 

"About  the  Ten  Commandments  being  merely  a 
decoration,  not  a  code?"  interrupted  Uncle  Andrew. 

"Yes — how  did  you  know?" 

But  Uncle  Andrew  only  smiled,  and  began  to  ask 
her  questions  about  her  forebears.  They  finally  dug 
up  a  distant  cousinship,  through  a  Master  Merriton 
who  had  divided  his  sons  between  Delaware  and  New 
Hampshire.  It  was  nearly  dinner  time  before  they 
parted. 

"Well?"  said  Phoebe  when  they  were  alone. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  think  me  romantic — which,  in 
fact,  I  chronically  am,  my  dear.  But  I  think  your 
efficient  Miss  Everington  does  not  live  here  at  all; 
but  in  her  dreams.  She  has  'nostalgic  du  passe.'  I 


78  WILD  WOODLAND 

confess  to  having  it  myself  sometimes — for  something 
that  died  when  they  fired  the  first  shot  on  a  place 
called  Fort  Sumter: 

Tor  a  time  now  far  away, 
A  belief  now  in  its  grave — ' 

or,  I  sometimes  fear,  very  nearly,"  said  Uncle  Andrew 
cryptically.  He  knew  nearly  everything  he  had  ever 
read  by  heart,  which  made  his  conversation  fuller  of 
quotations  than  most  people  were  prepared  for. 

"But  I  don't  see  what  vou  mean — nor  what  it  has 
to  do  with  her  treatment  of  Mr.  Venino,"  said  down- 
right Phoebe. 

"Curiously  enough,  I  think  he  may.  He  struck 
me  as  extremely  clever,  that  young  man.  But  of 
course,  when  her  nervous  breakdown  takes  real 
shape—" 

"What?"  said  Phoebe. 

"It's  only  that  I've  seen  other  women,  of  very  much 
her  type.  A  type  that  is  decreasing,  by  the  way,  with 
all  its  virtues,  as  it  is  extremely  selective  in  marriage. 
Two  New  Englanders  like  her,  and  three  Virginians. 
And,  as  well  as  one  can  judge  from  her  portraits^ 
Anne  Ascue  of  Bloody  Mary's  day." 

She  was  so  certain  that  he  was  wrong  that  he  did 
not  finish,  except  to  say  mildly,  "But  it  does  work 
with  horses,  you  know!"  and  then  diverge  courteously 
to  the  present-day  neglect  of  Pope's  poetry. 

What  moved  Nicholas  Venino,  a  very  silent  person 


WILD  WOODLAND  79 

normally,  to  deliberately  seek  an  interview  with  Uncle 
Andrew,  no  one  could  imagine.  A  whimsical  and  book- 
ish old  gentleman  who  continually  loses  his  glasses 
seems  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  attract  a  hard- 
working young  merchant  descended  from  one  of  the 
world's  most  practical  races.  But  nevertheless  he  did. 
Perhaps,  as  Uncle  Andrew  had  said,  he  was  very 
clever. 

"I  saw  you  were  sorry  for  me,"  he  said  quite  with- 
out preface  when  they  were  alone. 

Uncle  Andrew  adjusted  his  glasses. 

"Not  exactly — sorry  for  you.  I  have  a  great  deal 
of  faith  in  the  power  of  youth  to  help  itself.  But  I 
confess  to  wondering — just  a  little — being  a  curious- 
minded  old  man — how  you  would.  You  don't  mind?" 

The  quick  answer  was  more  picturesque  than  an 
American's  would  have  been,  and  less  self-conscious: 

"What  can  I  do?  I  have  done  everything — made 
myself  everything  that  America  asks.  I  could  give 
her  all  she  wanted;  I  live  as  she  would  have  me — 
she,  with  her  cold  heights!  I  have  made  myself, 
how  hardly  she  will  never  know,  into  what  I  thought 
she  would  wish.  Not  for  her  sake  alone.  I — I  desire 
what  is  right.  ...  I  have  seen  her  look  with  kind 
aloofness — and  I  know  what  thoughts  under  that 
aloofness — at  uncontrolled  ones  of  my  race.  But  I 
am  not  uncontrolled.  I  am — I  think  you  would  be 
told — honorable.  I — but  it  is  all  no  use.  There  is 
a  barrier  that  she  cannot  cross,  though  I  have  often 
thought  that  she  would  love  me  if  she  thought  I  was 


8o  WILD  WOODLAND 

of  her  kind.  She  resents  us  all,  though  she  works  all 
day  very  wonderfully  to  give  us  help.  ...  Us  ... 
I  suppose  that  is  it.  I  am  one  of  the  slum  children 
to  her — I  would  be,  if  I  came  with  the  crown  of  all 
Italy  or  the  money  of  all  America!" 

Uncle  Andrew's  slow  answer  did  not  seem  to  be 
to  the  point. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  idea  that  sometimes  you 
must  give  a  thing  up  before  it  really  can  become 
yours?" 

"If  she  could  only  forget  the  hills  she  can  scarcely 
remember  from  her  childhood — the  ancestors  who 
have  been  buried  so  long,  who  built  America,  as  God 
knows,  I  desire  to  build  in  this  day — " 

The  old  man  looked  thoughtful. 

"I  understand,"  he  said,  "that  you  are  a  well-to-do 
young  man.  What  I  think  you  should  do  is — give 
her  back  those  hills  for  a  little  while.  She  is  over- 
tired now.  See  to  it,  without  her  knowledge,  that 
there  is  money  enough  for  her  to  go  back  to  New 
Hampshire.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  is  right  and  you  are 
wrong,  Venino.  There  is  a  lot,  after  all,  in  this  hered- 
ity business.  You  can't  always  fight  it.  I'm  fond 
of  Delaware,  myself;  and  I  don't  doubt  that  the  fact 
that  a  man  named  John  Blanton  liked  its  looks  two 
hundred  years  ago  and  settled  there  biases  me  a  good 
deal.  .  .  .  It's  a  big  sacrifice,  Nicholas — you  don't 
mind  my  calling  you  that?  But  as  you  can't  get  her 
to  give  you  what  you  want,  why  don't  you  give  her 


WILD  WOODLAND  81 

what  she  wants?  It  seems  to  me,  if  you  really  love 
her,  that's  the  next  best  thing." 

"The  wall  of  ghosts  would  be  thicker  about  her 
than  ever!  My  last  chance  would  be  gone." 

"Nevertheless.  .  .  ."  said  Uncle  Andrew. 

Hill-roads  always  wind  like  an  adventure,  even  in 
the  heavy  heat  of  summer;  and  in  September,  when 
the  blue  haze  is  beginning  to  lie  across  the  distances, 
and  the  little  fresh  winds  have  a  stimulating  thrill 
to  them.  New  England  hill-roads  feel  like  a  path  to 
all  the  wonderful  things  one  had  almost  forgotten. 
They  wind  a  little  upwards,  and  the  woodland  closes 
in  on  either  side  of  them.  Here  and  there  an  old 
house,  shuttered  close  because  the  people  who  lived 
there  are  dead  long  ago,  or  moved  far  west,  stands 
wistfully  beside  the  road,  with  the  hardier  garden- 
flowers  still  thrusting  through  the  grass  and  weeds. 

Silence  Everington's  people  had  been  of  this  country, 
but  she  herself  had  never  known  it.  She  had  been 
brought  up  in  New  York,  and  in  her  vacations  there 
had  always  been  somewhere  else  to  go;  usually,  for 
she  worked  altogether  too  conscientiously,  and  had 
not  much  money,  a  place  where  she  took  charge  of  the 
summer  outing  of  the  little  children  from  her  settle- 
ment. She  was  a  settlement  worker,  and  for  the  six 
years  she  had  been  following  her  profession  she  had 
lived  in  it  with  the  missionary  intensity  of  her  ances- 
tors. But  this  year  she  was  overtired,  and  the  doctor 


82  WILD  WOODLAND 

had  sent  her  flying  to  the  New  Hampshire  hills,  with 
orders  to  forget  everything  but  herself  and  her  pleas- 
ure. She  was  staying  at  a  camp,  but  mostly  she  took 
her  pleasure  alone,  wandering  up  and  down  the  hill- 
roads  and  dreaming.  She  forgot  New  York  and  the 
work  she  loved  so  easily  that  it  surprised  her.  The 
vague  feeling  of  belonging  somewhere  else  which  had 
always  teased  her,  underneath  her  busy,  intense  days, 
was  gone.  She  belonged  here.  All  her  people  were 
gone,  but  the  hills,  and  the  woodland  with  its  blue 
haze,  were  here  still,  and  they  made  her  very  happy. 
Sometimes  she  rode  Peter,  the  old  camp  horse,  who 
had  been  the  means  of  teaching  so  many  generations 
of  girls  to  ride  that  his  attitude  to  humanity  was  a 
scornful  and  embittered  one,  and  his  mouth  absolutely 
hard;  more  often  she  went  afoot  with  a  little  packet 
of  lunch,  and  a  heavy  cape  in  deference  to  the  ideas 
of  Miss  Martinson,  the  head  of  the  camp,  who  was 
chronically  afraid  that  everybody  would  catch  cold. 
The  cape  was  flung  over  one  arm,  and  sometimes  she 
sat  on  it  in  a  very  damp  spot  of  woods.  She  never 
wore  it.  She  was  slim  and  pale,  with  the  transparent 
skin  and  deep  blue  eyes  which  make  people  feel  that 
their  owners  aren't  strong,  but  she  was  as  tireless, 
ordinarily,  as  any  Silence  or  Hopestill  of  her  ancestry. 
She  thought  a  good  deal  about  her  people  as  she 
walked  elastically  up  a  little  hill-road  this  September 
day,  the  wind  blowing  her  red-brown  hair  back  from 
her  face,  and  whipping  her  cheeks  delightfully.  They 
had  been  a  good  stock,  but  they  were  dead.  There 


WILD  WOODLAND  83 

were  no  more  Everingtons,  so  far  as  she  knew.  And 
the  race  would  be  dead  when  she  died.  She  was  only 
twenty-eight,  but  she  knew  that  she  would  never 
marry.  The  man  she  belonged  with — the  man  she 
should  have  married — well,  he  wasn't,  and  that  was 
all  there  was  to  it.  Some  of  the  girls  she  knew  laughed 
at  her  for  her  attitude;  but  she  held  steadfastly  to  it. 
If  she  found  him,  or  if  he  found  her,  they  would  be 
married.  If  not — and  after  all,  she  was  not  in  her 
first  youth  any  more — then  she  would  be  the  last  Ever- 
ington.  They  came  from  all  sorts  of  homes  and 
classes,  the  girls  who  worked  with  her  at  the  settle- 
ment; from  Phoebe  Rockingham,  whose  people  were 
millionaires,  to  little  Stella  Karsovian,  daughter  of 
Armenian  refugees  ten  years  over.  But  none  of  them 
were  New  Englanders.  She  said  that  fiercely  to  her- 
self. None  of  them  had  her  heritage  of  generation 
after  generation,  living  sternly  and  hard  in  their  rocky 
farms,  and  always  holding  high  the  ideals  they  had 
brought  to  a  far  country,  when  coming  to  it  meant 
hardship  and  suffering,  not  a  better  chance  for  soft 
living  in  a  richer  land. 

She  laughed  a  little  at  herself,  arguing  as  intensely 
about  it  as  if  she  were  talking  to  Nicholas  Venino, 
instead  of  safe  and  alone  up  in  the  hills  of  her  people. 
Nicholas  wanted  to  marry  her.  And  Phoebe  said  she 
was  silly  to  fight  him  off  so.  He  was  an  Italian  from 
the  North  country,  tall  and  gray-eyed:  grave,  too, 
unlike  the  chattering  swarthy  Sicilians  she  had  learned 
to  know  first  as  Italians.  He  had  been  a  Memorial 


84  WILD  WOODLAND 

settlement  child,  in  the  day  before  Silence  came  to 
work  there,  when  the  Memorial  was  a  new  thing.  He 
had  grown  up,  one  of  the  boys  they  pointed  to  as  an 
evidence  of  the  work  they  could  do.  He  had  gone 
through  Columbia,  and  he  was  prospering  as  an  im- 
porter. Oh,  you  couldn't  say  he  wasn't  presentable 
— but  couldn't  they  see  it  went  deeper  than  that? 
All  the  ideals,  all  the  feelings,  all  the  hopes  were  dif- 
ferent. Silence  had  come  up  here  to  flee  from  Nicholas 
and  his  pleadings  as  much  as  to  rest.  She  shud- 
dered now  as  she  thought  of  his  open,  passionate, 
boyish  love-making.  It  didn't  make  the  least  bit  of 
difference  who  was  around.  And  once  when  she  had 
told  him  in  desperation  that  she  cared  for  another 
man,  his  expression  had  frightened  her.  He  had  got 
himself  in  hand  quickly,  but  he  had  looked  so  like 
poor  little  Vergilio,  who  had  been  sent  up  the  day 
before  for  slashing  his  wife  Silvia  with  a  razor,  "be- 
cause of  her  too  great  beauty  and  her  too  loving  eyes 
to  others,"  as  he  had  explained  to  Silence  quietly. 

She  shook  herself  free  from  settlement  memories, 
and  plunged  down  a  wood-path  that  might  come  out  on 
another  road,  in  the  middle  of  a  village  cross-roads, 
or  never  at  all.  She  delighted  in  the  adventure  of  the 
thing.  And  even  if  she  got  lost,  she  had  lunch  and 
didn't  need  to  get  back  till  nightfall. 

The  woods  slanted  downhill,  a  close  undergrowth 
of  slim  young  trees.  Once  she  came  across  the  foun- 
dations of  a  house,  just  the  cellar  and  the  bricks  stand- 


WILD  WOODLAND  85 

ing  up  about  it.  It  hadn't  been  torn  or  burned  down 
so  very  long,  as  time  is  counted.  Where  the  front 
yard  had  been,  among  an  upgrowth  of  laurel  and 
young  trees  and  bushes,  a  child's  toy,  an  old-fashioned 
iron  engine,  was  still  half-buried  in  the  earth  among 
vines  and  flowers.  She  went  on  down  past  it  with 
her  eyes  filled  with  irrational,  sentimental  tears.  They 
had  been  there  too,  her  people,  and  they  were  gone. 
The  wild  woodland  was  taking  back  what  had  been 
snatched  from  it  with  such  stern  toil,  so  long  ago. 
She  hurried  on  down  through  the  fresh,  thrilling  air, 
till  she  had  come  again  to  a  spot  where  it  was  all 
woods;  down  again  and  still  down.  She  was  happy 
again  by  now.  In  these  woods  she  was  back  at  home. 
She  wondered  gaily  if  she  was  going  to  find  her  way 
out  for  hours.  She  didn't  care. 

But  presently  there  was  another  break  in  the  under- 
growth, and  she  halted  a  little,  seeing  a  glimmer  of  a 
house  through  the  slender  trees.  As  she  came  closer, 
still  not  quite  sure  whether  she  was  infringing  on 
private  property,  she  saw  it  clearly.  It  was  a  big 
white  house,  Colonial,  with  the  wide  low  porch,  almost 
on  the  ground,  which  she  liked  so  particularly.  The 
garden  before  it  was  carefully  tended;  hollyhocks, 
tall  and  glowing,  were  massed  along  the  porch-front, 
and  the  stalks  of  golden-glow  made  a  hedge  within  the 
white  palings.  There  were  beds  of  monthly  roses, 
too,  and  of  old-fashioned  white  pinks.  Up  here  sum- 
mer lingered  late.  It  had  sprung  out  of  the  wood- 


86  WILD  WOODLAND 

land  like  a  fairy-tale.  Behind  the  house  she  could  see 
farmland  spreading  away,  fields  of  corn  and  of  brown 
earth. 

She  paused  a  little  wistfully  at  the  palings,  looking 
in.  It  was  like  the  places  her  mother  used  to  tell  her 
of,  not  the  half -deserted,  overgrown  places  she  knew. 
As  she  stood  gazing,  an  old  lady  opened  the  door  of 
the  house,  and  came  out  to  sit  on  the  porch  in  the 
afternoon  sun.  She  stood  with  her  hand  shading  her 
eyes,  tall,  white-haired  and  benignant,  looking  across 
the  garden  to  the  woodland  whence  Silence  had  come, 
and  seeing  her,  smiled  and  beckoned: 

"Won't  you  come  up  and  sit  awhile?"  she  called. 
"I'm  watching  for  my  son  to  come  home.  Come  up 
and  sit,  and  watch  too." 

Silence  opened  the  gate,  with  a  little  difficulty,  and 
came  up  the  walk. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  old  lady.  "It's 
lonely  hereabouts,  though  it's  beautiful — don't  you 
think  so?  I  like  to  have  a  neighbor  drop  in.  And 
who  are  you,  my  dear?  I  don't  remember  you.  But 
you  have  a  New  England  look.  I  am  sure  you  must 
belong  in  these  parts." 

Silence  sat  lightly  on  the  porch  edge,  and  smiled  up 
at  her  questioner,  nodding. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  belong  in  these  parts,  though  my  people 
came  away  when  I  was  a  child,"  she  said.  "My  name 
is  Everington — Silence  Everington.  My  mother's 
name  was  Martha  Bradford.  They  belonged  here  in 
New  Hampshire." 


WILD  WOODLAND  87 

"Ah,  I  knew  it,  my  dear !  You  have  the  Everington 
look.  And  they  named  you  after  the  Silence  Evering- 
ton who  gave  the  alarm  when  the  British  were  coming, 
over  in  Zanesbury.  I'm  a  Zane,  myself.  We  remem- 
ber each  other,  we  old  country  folk!" 

Silence  laughed  and  glowed.  She  had  nearly  for- 
gotten the  story  of  the  ancestress  for  whom  she  was 
named.  And  nobody  else  in  the  world,  she  would  have 
said,  knew  or  cared  anything  about  Everingtons  or 
Zanes  or  Bradfords;  or  cherished  useless  old  legends. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  had  come  back  home!"  she  said 
warmly,  looking  up  at  .old  Mrs.  Zane. 

"So  you  have,  my  dear.  But  you  shouldn't  have 
left  it.  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  about  the  pioneer  in- 
stinct, but  when  our  ancestors  got  here  I  think  they'd 
pioneered  far  enough.  Do  you  see  any  one  coming? 
It's  time  my  boy  was  back." 

Silence  looked  in  the  direction  she  was  shown,  but 
saw  nothing. 

"Sometimes  he's  very  late,"  said  old  Mrs.  Zane 
smilingly.  "But  he's  a  dear  boy.  He  always  tries 
to  be  with  me  as  much  as  he  can." 

Her  fine,  weather-beaten  old  face  lighted  up  as  she 
spoke  of  her  son.  He  must  be  a  good  man,  Silence 
thought,  if  she  was  so  happy  in  him.  He  must  be 
old,  though,  Mrs.  Zane  herself  seemed  so  old.  She 
visualized  him,  a  tall,  strong-featured  man  like  her 
own  father,  broad-shouldered,  brown,  middle-aged, 
coming  across  the  fields  to  see  his  mother,  perhaps  with 
a  child  or  two  clinging  to  his  hand,  or  with  his  whole- 


88  WILD  WOODLAND 

some  wife  beside  him,  as  sunset  drew  near.  It  all 
seemed  like  the  sort  of  thing  she  had  always  wanted 
and  never  quite  believed  was  anywhere. 

"I  think  he's  coming  early  to-night,"  Mrs.  Zane's 
clear,  deliberate  old  country  voice  broke  in  on  her 
thoughts.  She  had  forgotten  to  look  with  her  hostess, 
but  now  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  saw,  close  at  hand, 
the  man  they  had  been  waiting  for — for  Silence  had 
been  drawn  into  Mrs.  Zane's  mood  sufficiently  to  wait 
almost  as  eagerly  as  she. 

He  was  not  like  Nicholas.  That  was  the  first  thing 
she  thought,  unconsciously  comparing  him  with  her 
Italian  lover.  He  was  something  as  she  had  pictured 
him,  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  Yankee-built,  but 
much  younger  than  she  had  supposed.  He  could  not 
have  been  more  than  a  couple  of  years  her  senior. 
He  had  the  shrewd,  kindly  blue  eyes  she  knew  so 
well — eyes  with  yet  a  dreaming  light  in  them,  the  light 
Silence  knew  was  in  her  own.  As  he  stood  there  for 
a  moment  without  speaking,  he  reminded  her  strongly 
of  some  one,  she  could  not  think  whom  till  he  bent 
and  kissed  his  mother,  then  looked  a  little  inquiringly 
at  the  guest.  He  was  very  like  an  old  painting,  one 
of  the  few  things  she  had  kept  of  vanished  grandeurs, 
an  ancestor  who  had  been  a  colonial  governor.  It 
was  the  same  thin,  proud,  distinguished  face,  except 
for  the  difference  made  by  youth  and  life.  These 
people  were  doubtless  far-off  cousins. 

"This  is  my  son,"  said  old  Mrs.  Zane,  looking  up  at 
him  with  infinite  affection,  but  not  touching  him,  after 


WILD  WOODLAND  89 

that  first  embrace,  as  a  more  demonstrative  woman 
would  have  done. 

"This  is  Silence  Everington,  David." 

David  Zane  spoke  to  her — a  little  distantly,  it 
seemed  to  her  at  first.  He  did  not  touch  her  hand. 

Silence  had  put  too  many  shy  people  at  their  ease 
in  the  course  of  her  work  to  mind  his  lack  of  cordial- 
ity. She  smiled  at  him,  and  taking  the  first  point  of 
contact  which  occurred  to  her,  asked  if  they  were  de- 
scended from  her  governor  ancestor.  The  mother  re- 
plied: 

"Yes,  indeed — didn't  you  know  that?  The  Ever- 
ingtons  and  the  Zanes  married  each  other  right  along. 
You  and  David  must  be  cousins  two  or  three  times, 
distantly." 

David  interrupted  her,  affectionately. 

"Now,  mother  dear,  when  you  get  on  genealogy 
there's  no  knowing  when  you'll  stop.  Do  you  like 
ancestors  too,  Miss  Everington?" 

Silence  flushed  and  nodded. 

"I  hadn't  thought  about  them  much,  down  in  the 
city.  But  up  here  it's  all  come  back  to  me.  Com- 
ing here,  finding  this  lovely  old  house  and  both  of 
you,  makes  all  of  it  seem  real;  all  the  people  behind 
me,  all  the  traditions." 

"I  have  never  been  anywhere  but  here,"  said  David, 
with  a  note  of  wistfulness  in  his  voice. 

"Oh,  but  it  is  so  beautiful!  To  look  over  those 
fields  of  corn  and  all  the  acres  behind  them,  and  feel 
that  they  have  belonged  to  your  people  since  hun- 


90  WILD  WOODLAND 

dreds  of  years,  with  no  change,  and  no  problems  but 
seedtime  and  harvest — " 

"She  knows,  David!  She  sees  things  the  right 
way!"  interposed  old  Mrs.  Zane  almost  passionately. 

He  made  no  answer,  except  to  look  at  Silence  with 
eyes  that  she  could  not  but  feel  were  worshipful. 

"Yes,  you  belong  to  our  people,"  he  said  musingly 
at  length.  "You  belong  here." 

His  mother  spoke  again. 

"There  are  hollyhocks  along  the  stone  wall,  yonder, 
planted  from  seeds  brought  from  England  when  the 
Zanes  came  from  the  ship  to  this  farm.  Show  them 
to  her,  my  son.  I  am  getting  too  old  to  move  about 
much." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  smiling.  She  seemed 
very  happy. 

The  two  young  people  rose,  and  moved  side  by  side 
down  the  walk  and  over  to  the  long,  low  stone  wall, 
overgrown  by  the  tall  hollyhocks.  Clematis  was  wind- 
ing over  the  wall,  too,  its  sweet  white  flowers  knotted 
in  among  the  hollyhock  stalks.  Silence  bent  down  and 
buried  her  face  in  the  clusters  of  perfumed,  feathery 
whiteness. 

"May  I  have  some?"  she  asked,  smiling  at  David. 
She  felt  somehow  as  if  she  had  known  David  forever;1 
as  if  he  were  some  one  she  had  forgotten  about  for 
some  strange  reason,  and  just  now  come  back  to, 
happily  remembering. 

He  smiled  back  at  her,  a  quiet,  sad  smile  that  was 
familiar. 


WILD  WOODLAND  91 

"You  may  have  everything  that  we  can  give  you. 
You  belong  to  us — you  have  said  so,"  he  told  her. 
She  knelt  by  the  low  wall  to  break  one  of  the  long 
tangled  clematis  vines,  twisted  about  stone  and  flower- 
stalk,  and  his  hands,  close  to  hers,  thrilled  her.  They 
were  strong,  and  knotted  as  if  by  outdoor  work,  yet 
finely  modelled.  As  she  made  a  final  effort  to  break 
the  tough  strands  of  the  vine,  they  touched  hers. 
They  were  both  kneeling  by  the  wall,  and  they  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes.  The  blue  fire  of  his  met  the 
gray  fire  of  hers. 

"You  belong  to  us,"  he  said  again  in  that  low,  steady 
voice  like  his  mother's.  .  .  .  "Don't  you  know  you 
do?" 

"I — I  think  I  have  come  home,"  said  Silence  as 
reverently. 

They  were  both  still  for  awhile  after  that. 

He  was  the  lover  she  had  wanted  always;  the  man 
of  her  own  kind  she  had  wished,  half -unconsciously, 
for,  all  the  years  she  had  been  working  alone  down  in 
the  city  where  things  went  on,  always  on  and  ahead 
in  a  swift  current.  He  was  here,  with  the  eyes  and 
look  and  voice  of  her  own  people,  and  he  said  that 
she  belonged  here — here  where  things  did  not  change, 
where  things  were  as  they  had  always  gone.  She  real- 
ized, as  they  rose,  still  silently  and  as  one,  and  wan- 
dered back  through  the  grounds,  gathering  the  flowers 
and  saying  scarcely  anything  to  each  other,  that  her 
expectation  of  some  day  finding  what  she  had  found 
had  been  the  only  bar  to  her  marrying  Nicholas  Ve- 


92  WILD  WOODLAND 

nino.  She  had  been  nearer  loving  Nicholas  than  she 
had  known.  She  thought  on  him  now,  daring  to  face 
her  affection  for  him  fearlessly,  in  her  new  knowledge 
of  having  come  home  to  David  Zane.  Ardent,  good, 
handsome,  successful,  forward-looking — she  had  never 
half  done  Nicholas  justice.  She  hoped  he  would  marry 
soon,  perhaps  pretty  Stella  Karsovian,  perhaps  some 
lovely  young  Italian  girl,  if  there  was  one  good  enough 
for  him.  And  she  looked  up  at  David,  striding  there 
silently  by  her  in  the  sunset,  along  the  narrow  path 
by  the  corn. 

She  never  could  remember,  afterwards,  all  the 
things  they  had  said  to  each  other,  out  there,  straying 
about  in  the  sunset  light.  Their  minds  fitted  so  that 
it  was  almost  like  thinking  aloud.  He  loved  her  and 
she  loved  him,  and  they  had  always  belonged  together, 
and  now  they  had  found  each  other.  Those  were  the 
things  they  told  one  another.  It  did  not  seem  strange 
that  it  should  have  happened  as  soon  as  they  met. 

"It  would  have  been  stranger  if  it  hadn't  happened. 
We  know  we  are  each  other's.  Why  pretend  it  isn't 
so?"  David  said,  echoing  the  thought  in  her  mind,  as 
they  paused  a  little  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  by 
an  old  stile. 

She  turned  and  looked  up  at  him,  and  he  swept 
her  into  his  arms.  They  stood  locked  together,  for- 
getting time  and  space,  in  that  last  wonderful  light 
of  sunset. 

How  long  it  was  before  she  drew  away  from  him 
she  never  knew.  It  seemed  suddenly  dark,  and  across 


WILD  WOODLAND  93 

the  chilly  darkness  she  heard  a  scream — his  mother's 
voice.  It  shook  her  from  her  trance,  and  she  fled 
back  through  the  corn-path,  across  the  lawn,  stumbling 
as  she  went  over  stumps  and  vines,  back  to  the  old 
house,  outdistancing  David.  She  ran,  panting,  around 
the  corner  of  the  house  and  up  on  the  porch.  It  was 
dark  and  lonely,  but  she  could  see  Mrs.  Zane,  scream- 
ing and  struggling,  her  arm  held  by  a  rough-looking 
man.  She  remembered  with  a  thrill  of  harror  how 
lonely  it  was  here,  how  shut  about  with  undergrowth 
excepting  on  the  side  whence  she  had  come. 

"David!  David!  Hurry!"  she  cried,  as  she  sprang 
up  on  the  porch,  and  tried  to  wrest  the  old  lady  from 
the  man's  hold.  He  dropped  the  thin  arm  he  held, 
at  once,  and  began  to  talk  vehemently  in  a  broken 
English  that  she  could  hardly  follow. 

"She  no  come  in — I  have  to  make  her  come  in,  or 
she  sit  here  all  night,"  was  what  she  thought  she 
made  out,  interspersed  with  a  language  she  thought 
sounded  like  Portuguese  or  Spanish.  It  sounded  to 
Silence  like  a  ridiculous  excuse.  He  had  been  about 
to  maltreat  the  old  lady.  Oh,  if  David  would  only 
hurry!  Could  it  be  that  he  had  not  heard  his  mother 
scream,  and  had  walked  on  in  another  direction — 
that  she  would  have  to  stay  here  and  contend  with 
this  man  she  was  afraid  of? 

"I  must  wait  for  David!  I  must  wait  for  David! 
I  tell  you  he  was  here  to-night!  I  must  wait  for  my 
son!  Tell  him,  Silence,  that  David  will  be  back 
soon!"  said  Mrs.  Zane  piteously. 


94  WILD  WOODLAND 

Silence  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 

"It  cannot  matter  to  you  whether  Mrs.  Zane  waits 
till  her  son  come  in,"  she  said,  addressing  the  man. 
He  answered  her  in  a  flood  of  words  she  could  not  fol- 
low, pointing  excitedly  first  to  the  house  and  then  to 
Mrs.  Zane.  And  as  she  listened  to  him  in  perplexity, 
she  heard,  with  a  throb  of  thankfulness,  a  man's  foot- 
steps hurrying  around  the  house,  and,  turning,  saw 
his  shape  coming  up  the  two  low  steps  to  the  porch. 
She  ran  to  him,  and  had  caught  his  arm,  thinking  it 
was  David.  Then  she  recoiled  in  astonishment.  Close 
to  him,  like  that,  she  could  see  that  it  was  Nicholas 
Venino — Nicholas,  whom  she  had  depended  on  to  do 
things  she  wanted  done  for  years.  She  was  too  glad 
of  his  protection  to  be  surprised  that  he  was  there. 
Even  if  David  delayed  a  little  it  did  not  matter  now. 

"Thank  heaven  I've  found  you!"  said  Nicholas, 
keeping  hold  of  her  as  if  to  reassure  himself.  "You 
could  never  have  found  your  way  back  alone.  What's 
the  matter  here?  Are  you  helping  some  one  in 
trouble,  as  usual?" 

She  had  forgotten  how  comfortable  it  was  to  turn 
to  Nicholas  for  help. 

"This  man  is  trying  to  do  something  to  Mrs.  Zane, 
here.  I  can't  understand  him.  Her — her  son  will 
be  back  in  a  minute.  I  was  trying  to  protect  her." 

"Of  course  you  were,  if  there  was  anything  to  pro- 
tect, little  Saint  Silence!"  he  said.  "But  I  don't  think 
anything  is  wrong.  They  told  me  about  this  place 
at  the  camp,  when  I  came  up  to  find  you.  The  man 


WILD  WOODLAND  95 

looks  after  her.  He  and  his  wife  live  a  little  way  from 
here,  and  take  care  of  her  and  do  her  work.  Perhaps 
I  could  understand  him — I  know  a  little  Spanish." 

Silence,  frightened  and  mystified  still,  heard  Nicho- 
las question  the  man  rapidly  in  Spanish,  and  listen 
attentively  to  his  patois  reply.  He  nodded,  when  the 
man  had  done,  and  turned  to  Silence  again.  Mrs. 
Zane,  meanwhile,  had  sunk  back  into  her  chair  and 
was  peering  through  the  darkness  again. 

"It  is  as  I  told  you,'7  said  Nicholas.  "This  old  lady 
lives  here  alone.  This  man  and  his  wife,  who  is  in 
the  kitchen  now  getting  her  meal,  are  paid  by  a  rela- 
tive of  hers,  a  man  who  lives  in  the  far  west,  to  look 
after  her.  It  was  getting  dark,  and  too  cold  for  so 
old  a  woman  to  stay  out  on  the  porch.  He  was  try- 
ing to  get  her  to  come  in  and  eat  something.  But  she 
was  insisting  on  staying  here  to  watch  longer.  He 
says  that  sometimes  for  days  she  does  not  give  any 
trouble.  To-night  was  a  bad  night." 

"But— but  I  don't  understand,"  Silence  faltered 
again.  "Her  son  and  I  went  down  through  the  corn- 
field, for  a  walk  in  the  sunset.  We  were  standing  by 
the  stile  together  when  I  heard  Mrs.  Zane  scream. 
I  ran;  I  thought  he  would  follow.  I  don't  understand 
why  he  isn't  here.  He — he  must  be  here  in  a  moment. 
She  is  only  watching  for  him.  Aren't  you,  Mrs. 
Zane?" 

It  was  too  dark  for  her  to  see  the  look  of  shock 
and  surprise  on  Nicholas'  face.  She  waited  for  the  old 
lady's  answer. 


96  WILD  WOODLAND 

"You  see!"  Mrs.  Zane  said  triumphantly.  "I  told 
you  he  came  sometimes — never,  never  when  people  do 
not  believe  in  him.  He  came  to-night,  and  talked  with 
Silence.  Let  me  watch  a  little  longer — only  a  little 
longer!" 

Nicholas  drew  Silence  to  him  quickly,  but  not  as  a 
lover  would;  more  as  if  she  were  a  child  he  must 
guard. 

"Listen,  my  little  one,"  he  said  gently.  "There  is 
no  son.  Miss  Zane  has  never  married.  Listen — hold 
still — try  to  believe!  I  understand — this  man  might 
understand — we  are  Latins.  But  never  the  people  at 
the  camp.  You  were  incantata — there  is  an  English 
word  for  it — wait — glamour.  She  threw  over  you  the 
belief  that  is  so  strong  in  her — " 

"But  I  saw  him!  I  saw  him!"  cried  Silence,  strug- 
gling to  escape  Nicholas'  sane,  strong  hold.  "He  had 
the  face  of  the  picture  in  my  room." 

"Yes,  of  course!  You  made  him  as  you  wished 
your  dream — have  I  not  known  for  long  that  your 
dream  was  my  only  rival?  Listen,  Silence!  You 
must  listen!  These  things  occur  to  people  sometimes. 
You  must  not  disbelieve  in  what  I  tell  you  because  it 
is  outside  your  experience.  I  will  tell  you  the  story 
of  Miss  Zane,  and  what  must  have  happened  to  you. 
She  was  born  in  this  old  tumble-down  house.  All  her 
people  had  been  born  there,  for  about  as  long  a  time 
as  since  my  great-grandfather's  father  came  from  Cala- 
bria to  Piedmont.  It  seems  a  long  time  to  you  Amer- 
icans. The  land  grew  infertile.  Many  of  her  people 


WILD  WOODLAND  97 

were  dead  because  of  the  Civil  War,  and  because  of 
too  much  intermarrying.  So  what  were  left  went 
away.  Her  lover  went,  and  wanted  her  to  go.  But  she 
loved  the  worn-out  land  and  the  house  better  than  to 
follow  the  future  in  a  new  part  of  the  country,  and 
she  stayed  here  alone.  And  living  all  alone,  all  she 
thought  of  was  the  race  that  would  die  when  she  died. 
I  do  not  know  how  women  come  to  these  things.  I 
suppose  she  wished  so  for  the  son  she  would  not 
have,  that  she  finally  built  herself  a  son  in  her  imag- 
inings. .  .  .  You  have  heard  of  that  happening?  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  Silence  faltered.  She  could  not  believe  Nich- 
olas, yet. 

"Yes.  So  much  you  will  believe.  You  must  be- 
lieve the  rest,  or  it  may  be  very  bad  for  your 
mind.  .  .  .  You  were  tired,  and  you  too  were  wrapped 
in  your  memories  of  that  past  which  has  made  this 
poor  old  woman  what  she  is.  You  went  down  through 
the  woods,  and  you,  wrapped  in  your  strong  thoughts, 
met  this  old  Miss  Zane,  who  has  sat  thinking — creat- 
ing about  herself — a  vision  of  her  son  that  she  wanted, 
strongly  too,  for  many  years.  The  mind  of  a  longing 
woman  is  a  very  strong  thing,  because  it  is  she,  after- 
all,  who  is  the  creator.  Oh,  believe  me,  my  dearest! 
I  saw  you  at  the  stile.  I  saw  you  fling  your  arms 
up  in  the  empty  air,  as  if  you  embraced.  I  saw  you 
turn  and  run,  though  I  did  not  hear  the  cry — I  was 
too  far.  There  was  no  one  there" 

"There  was  no  one  there?  .  .  ."  Silence  echoed, 
shrinking  back  against  Nicholas.  She  felt  suddenly 


98  WILD  WOODLAND 

tired  and  weak,  as  if  she  had  been  under  a  fearful 
strain  for  hours.  Then  she  cried  out.  "Oh,  Nicholas! 
I  saw  him!  We  loved  each  other!  Oh,  you  are  tell- 
ing me  that  I  am  mad!  I  saw  him — I  saw  him!" 

Then  she  stopped,  staring  through  the  dark  at  the 
old  woman,  who  was  huddled  in  her  chair,  with  a 
shabby  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  that  the  Portuguese 
had  brought  her  when  he  had  failed  to  make  her 
come  in.  She  had  caught  an  echo  in  her  own  voice 
of  the  note  in  Miss  Zane's. 

"You  saw  him,  certainly,"  Nicholas  told  her  again 
patiently.  "You  were  not  mad.  So  my  uncle  saw 
his  mother  once,  who  was  dying  far  away,  and  longed 
to  see  him.  You  saw  her  thought,  and  your  thought, 
as  you  see  a  picture  on  a  movie  screen.  It  spoke  as 
you  and  she  would  have  had  it  speak.  .  .  .  Come 
away,  beloved!  You  are  too  good,  too  strong,  too 
intelligent,  too  loveworthy,  to  live  in  the  barren  past." 

"But — I  felt  his  love  ...  he  loved  me — " 

Nicholas  laughed,  for  the  first  time  in  the  anxious 
moments  he  had  spent  there. 

"It  was  my  love  you  felt.  .  .  .  Come,  dear!  You 
can  do  nothing  here." 

The  old  woman  was  rising  to  her  feet  feebly,  of 
her  own  accord. 

"I  suppose  I  must  go  in,"  she  said.  "He  will  come 
soon.  Stay  and  watch  for  him,  my  dear.  Pietro  is 
right,  I'm  too  old  for  the  night  air.  ..." 

As  the  tall  old  figure  was  framed  in  the  lighted 
doorway,  where  Silence  could  see  the  busy,  hurrying 


WILD  WOODLAND  99 

form  of  Pietro's  wife  going  this  way  and  that,  busy 
about  the  house,  she  saw,  too,  with  a  thrill  half  pity, 
half  terror,  that  the  house  was  weather-stained  and 
crumbling.  The  shaft  of  light  showed,  too,  that  the 
roses  she  still  held  in  her  hand  were  blighted  and 
awry  with  a  generation  of  neglect,  and  that  the  yard 
was  weed-grown.  The  palings,  even,  showed  un- 
painted  and  with  great  gaps  between.  And  where  she 
had  thought  there  was  a  smooth,  gravelled  walk,  that 
too  was  almost  obliterated  with  neglect.  Her  own 
skirt  was  torn  as  if  it  had  been  dragged  through 
undergrowth.  She  turned  to  Nicholas,  the  only 
stable  thing  in  a  terrifying  world,  and  he  led  her 
mutely  down  the  steps,  and  in  the  direction  where 
the  cornfields  had  been.  As  he  raised  his  hand,  with 
the  flashlight  in  it,  to  show  them  their  path,  she  saw 
that  the  cornfields,  too,  had  been  a  thing  of  glamour. 
It  was  all  wild  woodland.  Nicholas  held  her  more 
closely  and  understandingly  as  he  helped  her  through 
the  open  stile. 

He  said  nothing  more  until  they  were  within  sight 
of  the  camp.  Then  he  bent  down  to  her  again. 

"Those  people  of  yours,  they  came*  to  a  new  land 
because  they  were  brave  and  strong  and  good.  They 
did  not  stay  in  the  old,  because  their  fathers  had 
lived  there.  Silence,  this  is  a  day  when  your  country 
needs  you  as  it  never  has  before — needs  you  to  be 
brave  and  strong  and  good,  too,  and  to  marry  and 
have  children  who  will  carry  on  the  fight  against 
wrong  beliefs,  and  wicked  men  and  women  who  want 


ioo  WILD  WOODLAND 

to  wreck  our  country.  You  have  said  that  you  be- 
lieve in  me — I  think  you  would  have  loved  me  before 
this,  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  dream-lover. 
Silence?  .  .  ." 

She  looked  up  at  his  dark,  regular-featured  face, 
with  its  look  of  love  and  kindness,  and  thought  of 
the  other  face — the  one  so  like  the  portrait  she  loved. 
She  was  very  tired,  and  very  lonely.  And  she  knew 
that  all  Nicholas  had  said  was  true. 

"If  you  will  be  patient  a  little  longer — "  she  fal- 
tered. 

He  laughed  triumphantly. 

"If  you  will  give  me  so  much  I  can  hope  the  rest!" 
he  told  her  gaily.  "And  now  think  of  it  no  more,  my 
dear.  There  is  the  light,  and  you  must  be  very  tired 
and  hungry  by  now." 

She  would  never  escape  from  Nicholas'  love  now, 
and  she  knew  it.  She  was  content.  She  even  smiled 
piteously  up  at  him,  resting  gladly  in  his  hold  as  he 
half  led,  half  supported  her  up  the  porch  of  the  camp 
house.  But  she  held  tight  to  the  withered  branch 
of  clematis  in  her  hand. 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

"Bur  I  thought/'  protested  her  uncle,  "that  you  were 
safe  in  Maine  with  Phoebe  and  Andrew?  Not  to 
speak  of  ...  am  I  too  rash  in  saying  .  .  ." 

"Not  so  long  as  you  haven't  said  it,"  his  niece 
Sydney  answered,  enveloping  him  in  a  masterful 
embrace  which  he  took  with  evident  pleasure,  but  a 
little  rocking — Sydney  was  very  strong. 

He  settled  his  glasses  more  tightly  and  looked  at 
her  as  she  released  him.  It  was  more  or  less  the  un- 
spoken code  of  the  family  as  a  whole,  through  most 
of  their  connection  clergyfolk  trained  never  to  be 
off  guard,  to  laugh  if  there  was  any  danger  of  feel- 
ing like  crying.  Sydney,  her  cheeks  flushed  through 
the  French  army  tan  that  had  never  quite  worn  off, 
and  her  dark  eyes  unnaturally  bright,  laughed,  and 
her  uncle  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"I  see,"  he  mused,  rushing  in  where  he  alone  could 
tread  with  Sydney,  "that  I  was  too  rash. 

"That  name  shall  be  silent 
And  silent  his  fame.  .  .  ." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  tragic,"  said  Sydney,  rather 
ashamed  of  herself  and  her  implied  transgression  of 
Uncle  Andrew's  belief  that  one's  sense  of  humor 
should  not  die  even  in  one's  troubles.  "But  I've — 

IOI 


102  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

broken  off  with  Frederick.  And  I  do  not  want  to 
talk  about  it.  I  want  to  stay  with  you,  please,  Uncle 
Andrew!  I've  sworn  off  the  world." 

"Even  in  this  remote  backwater,  where  by  the 
large  number  of  genuine  Americans  remaining  you 
may  see  how  far  from  modernism  and  progress  we 
are/'  said  Uncle  Andrew,  giving  a  hobby  a  furtive 
airing,  "the  world  exists.  Every  one  here,  my  dear 
niece,  is  wearing  his  or  her  flesh,  though,  as  we  have 
had  a  hot  summer  and  a  decree  of  fashion,  rather  less 
than  of  yore.  I  confess  to  still  having  a  personal 
liking  for  curves  in  the  female.  And  wherever  the 
world  and  the  flesh  have  a  rendezvous,  there,  alas,  is 
our  old  acquaintance  the  Devil.  But  to  such  peace 
as  I  have — and  as  you  can  get  when  your  friends 
down  here  discover  you — you  are  welcome,  my  dear. 
The  touch  of  masterfulness  which  you  acquired  partly 
from  Our  Army  in  Flanders — I  may  say — and  partly, 
I  fear,  in  the  natural  reaction  from  a  minister's  home, 
combined  with  the  touch  of  desire  to  change  others 
for  the  better  which  we  all,  alas,  possess  in  our 
clan.  .  .  ." 

"I  wasn't  in  Flanders,"  said  Sydney,  quite  herself 
by  now,  "and  you're  entirely  lost  in  that  sentence. 
But  you're  a  duck  to  have  me." 

"That,"  said  her  uncle,  "is  a  quotation.  There  is 
an  article  called  "The  Land  of  Lost  Allusion,"  which 
I  should  like  you  to  read,  my  dear,  when  you  have 
unpacked.  An  intelligent  little  article,  referring  to  the 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  103 

fact  that  literary  references  are  lost  upon  the  rising 
generation." 

But  when  she  had  run  upstairs  to  unpack  he  stood 
still  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  staring  at  the  third 
volume  of  Boswell's  Johnson,  by  a  triumph  over  his 
housekeeper  left  at  peace  on  the  carpet  three  days 
now. 

"Too  bad,"  he  said.  "From  what  I  heard  of  him, 
I  liked  Frederick.  But  perhaps  .  .  ." 

Something  up  in  New  York  City  was  annoying  Mal- 
colm Shore  badly,  and  he  could  not  imagine  what  it 
was.  He  had  an  excellent  leather  business,  which 
was  doing  much  better  than,  considering  the  times,  it 
had  any  business  to.  It  was  pleasantly  near  time 
for  him  to  take  his  usual  train  out  to  the  at- 
tractive suburb  where  he  lived  with  an  equally  at- 
tractive wife.  She  would  meet  him  at  the  station  in 
their  very  good  car,  with  a  selection  of  their  three 
pride-worthy  children  on  its  back  seat.  There  would 
even  be  time  for  a  game  of  tennis  or  so  at  the  club 
before  dinner.  The  club  was  good.  So  would  be 
his  partner;  and  the  dinner.  There  was  no  uncer- 
tainty about  the  whole  excellent  program,  unless  it 
might  be  the  personnel  of  the  children  on  the  back 
seat.  .  .  .  And  yet  something  bothered  him.  Some- 
thing was  irritating  the  back  of  his  mind,  nibbling, 
fretting. 

Presently  it  focussed  itself  on  two  impossible  rea- 


104  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

sons;  old  Bill  Gorman's  wedding-cards  and  the  big 
picture  his  secretary  kept  so  accurately  and  so  well 
dusted  always  on  the  same  place  on  his  desk.  .  .  . 
He  must  get  a  new  picture — it  was  absurd  to  have 
faced  the  same  smile  and  the  same  evening  frock  on 
the  same  Marjorie  for  five  years  now.  Besides  the 
children  were  getting  bigger.  He  must  tell  her  to  have 
a  new  one  taken.  ...  As  for  his  classmate's  marriage, 
why  that  added  to  the  general  feeling  of  the  staleness 
of  things  he  couldn't  imagine.  There  had  been  an 
epidemic  of  marriages  and  engagements  among  his 
contemporaries  lately;  he  had  been  enveloped  in  an 
atmosphere  of  true  love.  He  himself  had  been  mar- 
ried ten  years;  older  men  were  apt  to  instance  him 
complacently  when  they  advocated  early  marriages. 
He  had  been  twenty- three  and  Marjorie  twenty-one. 

Now,  these  ten  years  later,  all  was  very  well  and 
prosperous  with  them,  and  with  Junior,  Barbara, 
Peter,  Laddie  the  collie,  the  bungalow  and  the  car. 
Marjorie  had  named  the  children  according  to  the 
fancy  for  quaintness  that  had  come  in  about  their 
time.  Malcolm  always  let  her  do  the  naming — little 
things  like  that  were  what  made  your  wife  happy. 
Marjorie  and  Malcolm  were  very  happy  together. 

He  shut  the  annoying  photograph  in  a  desk-drawer 
impatiently,  shocking  his  neat,  middle-aged  secretary 
a  little  as  she  tiptoed  by.  She  liked  him,  as  most 
people  did.  And  he  "made  no  advances,"  she  was 
wont  to  say.  He  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  pup,  he 
would  have  said  himself  if  the  matter  had  come  up. 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  105 

He  was,  indeed,  a  very  decent  and  lovable  fellow. 

The  feeling  of  annoyance — staleness — irritation — 
whatever  it  was — clung  around  him  through  subway 
and  train.  Even  when  he  saw  his  car  waiting  at  the 
station,  Marjorie's  little  gloved  hands  on  the  wheel. 

It  was  all  exactly  as  he  had  known  it  would  be,  and 
yet  it  didn't  lift  his  spirits.  He  had  even  remembered 
rightly  on  the  way  out  that  it  would  be  Junior  and 
Barbara  on  the  back  seat  to-night,  because  they  had 
hung  up  their  coats  for  a  week  without  being  told, 
and  Peter  hadn't.  Laddie  waved  a  well-known  sorrel 
tail  and  gave  the  well-known  ecstatic  welcome,  and 
Marjorie's  pretty  waved  brown  head  leaned  out  the 
sedan  window  with  just  the  bright  smile  Marjorie 
always  had  when  she  welcomed  him.  It  was  all  nice. 
It  was  very  nice. 

And  yet  the  something  jarred  and  fretted  still.  It 
wasn't  nerves  or  overwork,  because  he  asked  the  doc- 
tor, and  the  doctor  laughed  in  his  face. 

"You're  a  perfect  ox,  old  man,"  he  was  told.  "Not 
a  thing  the  matter  with  you.  I'll  go  this  far  with 
you,  though;  you  need  a  while  out  of  harness.  Drop 
your  work  for  awhile,  or  if  you  can't  do  that,  go  take 
charge  of  another  branch.  Send  your  kids  to  a  grand- 
mother and  you  and  Marjorie  go  off  for  a  little  honey- 
moon." 

It  sounded  like  a  good  idea,  and  he  talked  it  over 
with  Marjorie.  But  she  couldn't  manage  it,  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned. 

"I've  promised  that  paper  on  Masefield  for  the 


io6  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

Woman's  Club.  And  there's  the  paper-hanger  com- 
ing next  week.  The  guest-room  simply  must  be  done 
over — you  know  we  agreed  on  that — before  Lucille 
Marcus  comes  on  the  visit  she's  planned.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'd 
forgotten  how  near  that  was!  There's  only  ten  days 
between  the  decorator  and  her  getting  here.  That 
wouldn't  be  worth  while  even  if  I  got  out  of  doing  the 
paper  on  Masefield.  And  Junior  has  to  be  taken  in 
with  his  teeth  twice  a  week — " 

It  was  plain  there  was  no  chance  of  untangling  Mar- 
jorie  from  her  routine.  She  was  very  sweet  about  it, 
and  tried  honestly  to  plan  for  an  escape  somewhere, 
but  the  threads  would  not  untwist,  and  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  cutting  them.  Shore  was  for  making 
a  clean  sweep  of  decorator,  visitor  »and  Masefield,  and 
letting  Junior's  teeth  stay  unstraightened  for  a  couple 
of  weeks  more.  But  it  was  no  use.  He  suspected 
Marjorie  of  being  a  little  afraid  of  the  camping  trip 
he  had  suggested.  He  had  never  been  able  to  get  her 
to  go  camping.  She  was  a  dainty  little  soul,  uncom- 
fortable unpowdered  and  unwaved  and  away  from 
bathtubs;  and  she  disliked  leaving  her  children.  But 
she  was,  as  always,  sweet  about  his  going.  If  the 
doctor  said  he  needed  a  change,  why,  he  would  doubt- 
less get  more  of  one  alone.  And  perhaps  things  would 
straighten  out  later,  and  she  could  join  him. 

She  was  certainly  a  dear  little  thing — just  the  same 
dear  little  thing  she  had  been  ten  years  ago.  On  the 
train  going  to  Delaware  Malcolm  smiled  at  the  thought 
of  her  slim  little  white  over-manicured  hand  waving 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  107 

him  good-by,  with  the  handkerchief  picked  up  in  the 
exact  middle,  "like  a  steel-engraving,"  he  had  used 
to  tease  her  in  the  days  of  their  engagement.  Just  so 
she  had  used  to  wave  him  good-by  the  summer  before 
they  married.  The  same  hand,  the  same  gesture.  .  .  . 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  The  doctor  had  been 
right — it  was  a  relief  to  slip  everything  off  his  shoul- 
ders for  awhile.  Down  in  Delaware  there  would  be, 
beside  the  nearly  negligible  business  he  was  looking 
after,  he  had  heard,  excellent  shooting.  His  associate 
there  was  putting  him  up  at  the  Country  Club  for  the 
length  of  his  stay.  Sounded  pretty  good  all  around. 

It  was.  He  drove  ahead  with  his  business  in  a 
way  which  did  not  seem  to  brace  up  the  overwork 
theory.  He  flung  himself  into  the  country  club  round 
with  a  zest  he  had  scarcely  known  since  his  college 
days.  He  rose  in  the  morning  looking  forward  to 
the  fun  life  was  going  to  be;  and  enjoyed  himself  gen- 
ially till  two  in  the  morning,  usually,  with  unabated 
vigor.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  wished  Marjorie 
could  have  cut  loose  from  all  her  fool  things  and 
come  with  him.  He  was  honestly  unaware  that  it  was 
the  dropping  of  all  his  responsibilities,  those  of  a  hus- 
band and  father  among  the  rest,  which  were  making 
him  feel  so  buoyant. 

It  was  the  third  afternoon  of  his  stay,  and  he  had, 
for  a  wonder,  a  free  moment.  He  had  been  reading 
one  of  Marjorie's  nice  little  letters,  with  a  funny 
scrawl  inside  from  Peter.  He  had  been  smiling  over 
it,  taken  back  for  the  moment  to  the  atmosphere  of 


io8  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

his  home,  and  wishing  the  little  chap  were  with  him. 
Then  he  thrust  it  in  his  pocket,  and  stared  out  into 
the  road.  And  he  made  the  rueful  discovery  that  his 
old  nibbling  restlessness  and  vague  want  of  something 
had  only  been  lying  in  wait,  patient  till  he  should  have 
a  quiet  moment.  He  wanted — he  didn't  know  what 
he  wanted.  .  .  . 

Certainly  not  to  have  an  elderly  man  in  a  caped 
coat  sit  down  on  the  window-seat  beside  him  with  a, 
little  chuckle  of  comfort,  switch  on  a  light  which  de- 
stroyed all  the  gloom  so  comfortable  to  grouse  in, 
and  begin  to  read  aloud  to  him  without  a  shadow  of 
excuse. 

"Here  it  is!"  said  the  elderly  gentleman  with  an 
innocent  triumph.  "The  Eternal  Return  of  Nietzsche, 
two  hundred  years  before  that  poor  soul  ever  learned 
his  own  mountainous  language,  in  an  English  jest-book 
of  the  sixteenth  century!" 

He  peered  amiably  at  Malcolm  over  the  edge  of  a, 
pair  of  bifocal  spectacles  as  he  began  to  read.  Mal- 
colm did  not  know  whether,  by  reason  of  blindness, 
the  old  gentleman  took  him  for  a  bosom  friend,  or 
was  merely  electing  him  one.  He  wished  he  hadn't 
pounced  on  him.  And  yet  one  couldn't  be  rude  to  the 
old  soul.  He  was  so  like,  as  he  read  earnestly  on 
with  comments  of  his  own,  something  you'd  read  about 
and  never  expected  to  find.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  the  type 
doubtless  did  exist  still  in  far-off  country  towns — the 
charming,  discursive  old-school  manners  that  most 
people  have  no  time  for,  the  enormous,  leisured,  futile 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  109 

scholarship — the  whole  atmosphere  of  a  life  spent  far 
from  the  hot  realities  of  the  present,  of  anything  that 
had  happened  later  than  the  slow-going,  amiable,  petty 
eighties.  .  .  . 

As  the  old  gentleman  read  and  talked  on,  Malcolm 
began  to  feel  that  he  had  known  him  for  at  least  ten 
years.  He  began  to  remember  his  dead  father.  Yet 
his  bluff,  gay  father  hadn't  been  at  all  like  this  gentle 
old  soul  with  his  half-winning,  half-amusing  air  of  con- 
stitutional helplessness.  Midway  in  his  discourse  on 
Nietzsche  he  introduced  himself,  in  a  half  whimsical 
parenthesis,  as  the  rector  of  the  little  church  of  the 
place — 

"Andrew  Blanton  by  name,  very  much  at  your  serv- 
ice, sir." 

So  he  was  elected,  not  mistaken,  for  a  friend.  Dr. 
Blanton,  he  discovered  as  time  went  on,  was  given  to 
doing  that  to  most  of  the  world.  He  took  it  for 
granted,  as  a  child  does,  that  people  were  quite  as 
interested  in  him  and  his  tags  of  scholarship,  as  he 
was  in  them  and  whatever  they  did,  and  he  was  some- 
how rarely  disappointed.  It  was  a  comforting  glam- 
our that  the  old  man  cast  about  him.  Malcolm  sank 
into  it  restfully. 

He  found  himself  being  led  away  in  the  direction  of 
the  book-lined  rectory  to  a  running  dissertation  on 
English  humor,  quite  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  man 
who  had  put  Malcolm  up  at  the  club  encountered  them 
at  the  doorstep,  and  seemed  quite  to  understand  the 
procedure. 


no  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

"I  didn't  suppose  he  would  escape  you  long,  Uncle 
Andrew,"  he  said  with  a  mock-mournfulness  and  a 
very  apparent  affection. 

"Only  going  home  with  me  for  a  little  while,"  said 
Uncle  Andrew,  looking  a  little  guilty  and  dropping 
his  spectacle-case,  which  his  friend  retrieved  for  him 
in  an  accustomed  manner.  He  dropped  it  into  a  capa- 
cious black  bag  with  a  draw-string,  dropped  the  bag 
itself,  had  it  restored,  and  finally  achieved  his  home 
without  more  than  three  following  mislayings  of  prop- 
erty. 

He  established  Malcolm  in  an  eaved  bedroom,  of 
which  not  the  least  charm  was  that  the  books  lining 
it  quite  overflowed  on  the  light-stand  and  nearly  on 
the  bed.  Then  he  wandered  off,  and  could  be  heard 
being  lovingly  reproved  by  a  rich  female  darky  voice 
in  the  distance. 

Malcolm  laughed  to  himself.  It  was  all  so  relax- 
ing, somehow.  He  strayed  downstairs  presently,  read- 
ing with  avid  interest  as  he  went  an  elderly  green  book 
on  the  crimes  of  the  Mormons,  and  sat  himself  on  a 
verandah  he  found  to  await  Dr.  Blanton's  remembering 
him  again.  There  was  no  hurry. 

Nearly  an  hour  went  by  before  anything  else  hap- 
pened. Then  the  screen-door  made  a  noise,  and  when 
he  looked  up  a  tall  girl  was  walking  out  of  the  house 
with  a  pair  of  tennis  shoes  in  her  hand.  She  sat  down 
on  the  steps,  quite  unembarrassed  by  her  unshod 
feet  and  a  braid  of  thick  dark  hair  over  her  shoulders, 
and  began  to  lace  on  the  shoes. 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  in 

"I'm  Sydney  Anthony.  Dr.  Blanton's  my  uncle," 
she  told  him  with  her  uncle's  immediate  friendliness. 
She  was  not  exactly  pretty,  measured  by  the  stand- 
ard of  Marjorie's  carefully  groomed  prettiness.  Her 
amused  scarlet  mouth  was  too  large,  and  her  dark  eyes 
— large  too — had  a  tilt  down  at  the  corners  that  was 
fascinating,  but  irregular.  Her  white  skirt  and  middy 
made  her  look  younger  than  he  afterward  learned  she 
was;  not  more  than  seventeen  or  eighteen.  Her  voice, 
in  contrast  to  her  carelessly  intimate  manner,  was 
very  soft  and  caressing,  with  a  light  note  of  mockery 
in  it.  "Are  you  the  Mr.  Shore  he's  taken  admiringly 
to  his  breast?  Thought  you  were  quite  staid  and  old 
— he  said,  before  he  left  to  visit  the  afflicted,  that 
you  had  a  genuine  talent  for  the  appreciation  of  six- 
teenth century  humor." 

She  went  on  with  her  shoes,  doubled  lithely  over 
her  task. 

"I  hope  he's  taken  me  to  his  breast,"  said  Malcolm, 
laughing  a  little,  "but  I  can't  swear  to  the  rest." 

They  both  laughed  again.  There  was  a  wind  of 
something  that  came  with  her  which  seemed  to  blow 
away  the  vague  boredom  and  impatience  he  had  felt 
so  long.  He  felt  suddenly  freed,  comfortable,  as  if  a 
dryad  had  stepped  casually  out  of  her  tree  and  begun 
a  conversation. 

"Then  he  expects  you  to  stay  the  night.  In  fact,  I 
don't  think  you'll  get  back  to  the  club  again  for  some 
time." 

Malcolm  protested  politely,  though  in  his  heart  he 


ii2  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

hoped  what  she  said  was  true.  He  fitted  here,  some- 
how. 

"Oh  yes,  you  will.  People  generally  do  what  Uncle 
Andrew  wants  them  to."  She  straightened  up  from 
lacing  her  shoes  and  leaned  back  against  a  pillar. 
"I'm  going  to  play  tennis;  that's  why  I'm  wandering 
about  in  pigtails.  That  is,  I  am  when  Uncle  Andrew 
gets  back  from  Mary  Murray's  rheumatism.  Till 
then,  being  a  lady  on  my  uncle's  gallery,  I  entertain 
you.  .  .  .  I'm  sure  'entertain'  was  the  word." 

Somehow  her  mockery  freed  him  still  further. 
"  'Entertain'  is  the  word.  I  hope  you  realize  your 
duty." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I  always  seem  to  have  to  do  my  duty  when  I'm 
around  Uncle  Andrew.  He's  of  an  insidious  virtue. 
Otherwise  I  seldom  do,  I  hope." 

"If  you  cut  out  the  tennis  and  went  motoring  with 
me  instead  would  it  be  doing  your  duty  or  avoiding 
it?"  he  demanded  on  an  impulse.  It  was  so  long  since 
he'd  had  impulses  that  he  liked  having  one.  Of 
course  she  wouldn't  do  it.  Women  and  their  network 
of  unbreakable  little  plans! 

She  looked  up,  her  white  teeth  flashing. 

"Avoiding  it — delightfully!  It's  just  the  hour  for 
a  drive,  and  I  can  tennis  every  day.  Wait.  I'll  call 
up  Josephine-Lou,  and  be  with  you  toot  sweet." 

She  leaped  up,  this  friendly  stranger,  and  dove  into 
the  house  like  a  boy.  He  could  hear  her  at  the  tele- 
phone. By  the  time  he  had  gone  to  the  garage  and 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  113 

come  back  with  his  car,  she  was  ready.  He  tooted  for 
her  boyishly,  and  she  ran  immediately  out,  a  white 
tarn  pulled  down  over  her  ears  and  a  jumper  instead 
of  a  middy  over  her  white  silk  skirt.  She  tossed  a 
sweater  into  the  car  deftly,  and  came  down  the  steps 
lighting  her  cigarette. 

"Very  fast — and  very  far!"  she  demanded.  "It  will 
feel  much  more  like  a  dereliction  of  duty  if  you  go 
fast.  But  we'll  combine  virtue  with  pleasure.  I  hap- 
pen to  know  that  Uncle  Andrew  wants  some  autumn 
leaves  for  the  chancel." 

"Very  well.  They  can  grow  quite  a  distance  off, 
can't  they?" 

"They  do,"  she  informed  him,  her  teeth  flashing 
again.  She  gave  him  a  lighted  cigarette,  as  his  hands 
were  busy  with  the  wheel,  lighting  herself  another, 
without  being  asked.  Something  in  the  matter-of- 
courseness  of  the  act  suggested  to  him  that  she  had 
been  overseas,  and  he  asked  her.  She  nodded. 

"Yes,  a  year  and  a  half,"  she  said.  "Entertainer, 
though,  not  brow-smoother.  I  sang  for  them.  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything.  It  was  a  decent 
life — heaps  of  hard  work,  and  no  problems  to  worry 
over."  Her  brow  knotted  for  a  moment.  He  smiled 
secretly.  A  kid  like  that  with  problems  on  her  mind! 
.  .  .  She  couldn't  be  so  much  of  a  kid,  though,  if  they 
let  her  go  over  with  the  Y. 

"You  get  over?"  she  asked  in  turn,  before  he  could 
wonder  further. 

He  shook  his  head. 


ii4  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

"Wife  and  three  children/7  he  explained,  glad  it 
could  be  slipped  in  so  easily,  "and  worse  than  that, 
the  government  decided  that  I  was  an  expert  on 
leather.  I  spent  a  glorious  and  warlike  year  inspect- 
ing saddles." 

She  smiled,  and  said  what  a  chum  would  have  said. 

"Hard  luck!" 

He  hadn't  cared  so  much  for  these  overseas  girls, 
as  he'd  run  into  them  time  and  again.  He  said,  as 
most  men  did,  that  the  life  had  rubbed  off  something 
— made  them  arrogant,  sexless.  But  this  friendly, 
poised  young  creature,  with  her  man-to-man  attitude, 
and  the  girl's  piquancy  under  the  comradely  under- 
standing— well,  he  liked  her  a  lot,  just  as  he  would 
have  liked  an  instantly  sympathetic  man-friend.  You 
didn't  have  to  talk  across  to  her  as  you  did  usually  to 
women — pick  your  ideas.  He  wasn't  man  to  her;  he 
was  a  human  being  and  a  friend.  He  settled  into  the 
situation  with  the  feeling  of  relaxation  and  comfort 
one's  body  feels  in  a  comfortable  chair. 

Uncle  Andrew  had  remembered  him  by  the  time 
they  were  back  from  their  drive  with  a  earful  of  yel- 
low and  scarlet  leaves.  And  Sydney  was  quite  right. 
He  would  not  hear  of  any  such  thing  as  Shore's  return 
to  the  Country  Club.  He  despatched  a  lurking  suitor 
of  the  black  cook's  for  Shore's  belongings,  rode  down 
his  faint  objections  amiably,  and  launched  on  some- 
thing which  he  evidently  considered  of  more  impor- 
tance than  any  possible  objections — Shore  seemed  to 
remember  faintly  afterwards  that  it  was  John  Milton's 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  115 

attitude  to  political  economy.  They  sat  out  on  the 
verandah  afterward,  the  three  of  them,  belonging  most 
intimately,  and  talking  about  unimportant  things  that 
were  very  interesting.  Sydney  and  Malcolm  Shore  did 
more  of  the  talking  after  dinner.  Uncle  Andrew  had 
a  way  of  diving  in  for  references  in  books,  that  some- 
how did  not  break  the  thread  of  things  at  all. 

Malcolm  Shore  found  himself  talking,  that  first 
evening,  a  good  deal  about  Marjorie  and  the  children. 
He  didn't  exactly  want  to  do  it,  either.  Something 
seemed  to  be  driving  him  to.  He  realized  afterwards 
that  he  had  been  doing  it  to  make  himself  feel  decent. 
If  Sydney  liked  him  in  spite  of  his  having  a  wife  he 
lived  happily  with,  he  was  playing  fair,  and  could  go 
on  with  this  new  wonderful  friendship.  For  Sydney, 
though  she  happened  to  be  a  woman,  was  the  friend 
he  had,  without  knowing  it,  been  lonely  for  a  long  time, 
he  knew.  She  had  things  for  him  that  no  one  else 
had  ever  been  able  to  give.  He  had  for  her,  too,  it 
seemed.  Their  minds  sprang  together  and  their  cheeks 
flushed  with  the  excitement  of  this  immediate  kinship, 
as  he  remembered  his  mind  had  sprung  to  meet  the 
minds  of  one  or  two  of  his  mates  in  college  days.  It 
would  be  a  lifelong  friendship,  perhaps.  Marjorie 
would  like  her  as  much  as  he  did,  surely.  She  made 
friends  more  easily  than  he  did,  anyway. 

They  carried  Uncle  Andrew  off  for  a  long  drive  next 
day,  ignoring  his  protests  about  parish  duties.  Sydney 
had  not  been  staying  with  him  long,  it  appeared,  and 
on  the  strength  of  her  being  an  infrequent  guest  de- 


n6  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

manded  his  society.  Her  brother  was  a  clergyman 
also,  (it  seemed  the  profession  ran  in  the  family)  and 
he  had  married  the  daughter  of  a  rich  New  Yorker, 
who  owned  something  he  called  a  camp,  but  which 
was  more  like  a  country  estate  in  the  Canadian  woods. 
Sydney  had  been  staying  up  there  with  her  brother 
and  sister-in-law  and  some  other  guests  of  theirs,  till, 
as  she  explained,  the  luxury,  together  with  one  or  two 
other  things,  got  on  her  nerves. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  Phoebe  and  Andrew,"  she  said, 
"they  work  like  dogs  when  they're  in  the  city,  and  if 
they  want  to  rough  it  on  flowery  beds  of  ease  it's  only 
sensible.  They  don't  take  time  for  much  of  that  sort 
of  thing  at  home.  But  I  don't  live  in  the  slums,  and 
when  I  camp  I  want  to  camp,  and  come  back  with 
rapture  to  a  porcelain  bathtub.  But — well,  I  suppose 
I  wouldn't  have  stayed  even  if  that  particular  camp 
had  been  as  primitive  as  Davy  Crockett's." 

Her  eyes  darkened,  and  for  a  moment  her  face 
looked  drawn  and  tired.  Then  it  lighted  again  with 
her  accustomed  careless  gaiety,  and  she  began  asking 
Malcolm  ridiculous  riddles  about  Mary  Christmas  and 
Benny  Dictine. 

She  loved  the  woods  as  much  as  Malcolm  did.  She 
was  back  again  on  the  subject  at  their  next  dinner- 
table  conversation.  She  knew  a  camp  where  things 
were  primitive  enough  to  suit  her,  and  yet  not  uncom- 
fortable, she  said,  and  she  was  planning  to  go  up 
there  alone  in  another  two  days. 

"I  was  going  to  take  Uncle  Andrew  along,  but  He 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  117 

was  hard  enough  to  detach  from  his  sick  people  any- 
how, and  now — I  verily  believe  he's  added  you  to 
the  menage  for  an  alibi,"  she  said  teasingly.  "It  will 
only  defer  your  doom,  let  me  tell  you,  Uncle  Andrew." 

But  Uncle  Andrew  said  cheerfully,  "Now,  my  dear 
Sydney,  you  are  putting  the  old  man  in  a  very  embar- 
rassing position.  Mr.  Shore  will  presently  feel  that  I 
am  about  to  put  him  forth  in — let  us  say — a  hypo- 
thetical snowdrift.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  not  so  far 
crushed  by  your  tyrannies  as  to  have  to  resort  to  alibis. 
If  I  wished  to  go  with  you,  which  I  do  not,  I  would 
suggest  to  Mr.  Shore,  who  has  told  me  that  he  has  been 
recommended  a  change,  that  he  make  a  third  of  our 
party!" 

He  ended  with  his  little  high  laugh  on  a  note  of 
childlike  triumph.  And  Sydney  got  up  and  ran 
around  to  him,  and  kissed  him  exactly  as  she  would 
have  kissed  a  child. 

"Why,  you  lamb,  of  course  you  would,"  she  said. 
"He  should  take  anybody  along  he  wanted  to,  so  he 
should,  except  a  smallpox  patient,  maybe." 

Uncle  Andrew  looked  embarrassed,  the  fact  being 
that  he  had  spent  three  indomitable  weeks  last  summer 
isolated  with  a  colored  family  whose  unreasonable 
dread  of  hospitals  had  been  too  much  for  his  heart. 
But  he  didn't  like  it  mentioned. 

Malcolm  made  a  bold  stroke.  Afterwards  he  won- 
dered how  he  had  the  courage,  but  at  the  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  wanted  to  go  on  living  with 
these  two  delightful  people  so  much  that  he  must  do  it. 


ii8  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

"Let's  all  go,  then!"  he  said  boyishly.  "Come  on, 
Uncle  Andrew —  I  beg  your  pardon,  Doctor  Blanton, 
but  it  seemed  so  natural."  Dr.  Blanton  beamed. 
"Always  Uncle  Andrew  to  my  friends,  my  dear  boy," 
he  said.  "But—" 

"But  now  your  last  link's  broken,"  said  his  niece 
firmly.  "Us  for  the  woods." 

It  all  seemed  very  impromptu  and  wild,  when  Mal- 
colm came  to  think  of  it  afterwards.  But  it  was  actu- 
ally decided,  Uncle  Andrew  struggling  feebly,  for  he 
hated  making  starts,  though  he  always  enjoyed  him- 
self after  he  had  been  shoved  into  starting. 

"You're  really  doing  me  a  favor,"  Malcolm  told  him 
persuasively.  "I  wanted  to  go  badly,  and  I  hadn't 
the  nerve  to  do  it  alone.  I've  been  horribly  restless  and 
nervous  lately,  worrying  my  wife's  life  out  of  her,  I 
expect." 

"I  think,"  said  Uncle  Andrew,  gazing  at  him  over 
his  thick  spectacle  with  a  steady  mildness,  "that  the 
trip  will  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  you." 

The  unworldliness  struck  Malcolm  later.  Not  many 
old  gentlemen  would  have  encouraged  a  young  mar- 
ried man  to  go  on  a  trip  with  him  and  a  handsome 
young  niece,  he  thought.  Of  course  he  was  safe,  but 
lots  of  men  wouldn't  have  been.  Not  with  that  wonder 
of  a  Sydney.  What  a  brain  she  had,  and  what  woman- 
liness! Underneath  the  careless,  almost  scornful  way 
she  had  of  facing  facts,  almost  flinging  them  at  you 
if  you  like,  you  could  feel  something  strong  vibrat- 
ing. .  .  .  Passion  and  intelligence,  and  tenderness — 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  119 

look  at  her  half-laughing  devotion  to  the  old  uncle, 
who  must  be  something  of  a  trial  sometimes  with  his 
half -consciously  whimsical  absent-mindedness — and 
strength  and  looks  to  boot.  Queer  she  hadn't  married. 
Men  liked  her  enough;  there  were  sufficient  of  them 
haunting  her  footsteps  even  down  here,  he  had  seen 
already.  They  weren't  the  sort  of  men  she  ought  to 
marry,  though.  But  there  wasn't  much  danger  of 
her  throwing  herself  away  on  them.  She  was  patently 
untouched  by  any  of  them.  ...  He  was  not  jealous — 
he  had  no  right  to  be.  Still  it  was  an  added  pleasure 
when  the  three  of  them  were  finally  on  their  journey 
together. 

"It  isn't  often  one  finds  two  friends — not  just 
acquaintances,  but  actual  friends — in  one  house,"  he 
told  her  musingly,  from  where  he  sat  facing  her  in 
the  canoe  that  bore  them  on  the  final  stage  of  their 
trip.  "They're  rare,  you'll  know  when  you  get  to 
be  my  age — people  you  can  be  your  real  self  to  with- 
out stopping  to  think.'7 

"Without  making  yourself  over  for  the  moment,  or 
holding  parts  of  you  back  so  you'll  adjust  decently  to 
the  other  person.  I  know,"  she  said,  her  erect  head 
and  shoulders  vivid  even  beside  the  scarlet  sunset  and 
deep,  serene  blue  water  they  were  silhouetted  against. 
"I've  had — let's  see — just  two  since  I  left  college. 
You're  the  third." 

"College?"    He  had  not  thought  her  so  old. 

"Yes.  I'm  twenty-seven."  She  was  always  con- 
trasting with  Marjorie;  not  to  either  woman's  disad- 


120  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

vantage;  only  with  a  sense  of  the  curious  differences 
in  women.  Marjorie  always  hid  her  age  as  if  it  was 
a  disgrace.  Sydney  passed  that  as  unimportant,  to 
come  back  to  the  fact  of  their  friendship,  smiling  a 
little  in  the  red  light.  "And  you  don't  know  how  glad 
I  was  to  find  you  all  waiting  for  me!  Yes,  we  really 
are  friends.  If  we  were  both  girls  or  both  men  it 
would  be  just  the  same.  And  do  you  know,  I  did 
need  you.  I've  been  through  something — well,  a  bit 
hard — just  lately." 

She  was  the  most  divinely  honest  creature — and 
how  she  knew! 

"I  needed  you  too,"  he  said,  "just  that  way.  A 
friend  like  you,  man  or  woman." 

They  landed  then,  and  he  helped  her  ashore,  giv- 
ing and  receiving  a  warm  handclasp  that  went  through 
him  in  a  strong  current  of  courage  and  pride  and 
delight.  .  .  .  Uncle  Andrew,  clinging  to  the  cape-coat 
which  no  representations  as  to  the  superiority  of 
sweaters  had  been  able  to  tear  him  from,  got  stiffly 
from  the  other  canoe  and  stood  a  moment,  staring  out 
over  the  great  sweep  of  tranquil  water  to  the  blue 
stately  hills  far  beyond. 

"Oh,  ye  mountains  and  hills,  bless  ye  the  Lord; 
praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  forever!"  he  murmured, 
his  thin  old  peering  face  lighted  for  an  instant  with 
a  radiance  which  made  Malcolm  regard  him  curiously. 
He  heard  Claude-Camille,  the  hairiest  of  the  big 
guides,  say  something  in  French  to  'Tiste,  the  other 
one. 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  121 

"C'est  la  bonne  chance;  c'est  un  homme  saint" 
was  what  he  thought  it  was.  Shore  had  not  thought  of 
kind  old  unpractical  Uncle  Andrew  as  particularly 
holy.  But  he  did  seem  to  bring  good  luck;  at  least, 
his  presence  greased  the  wheels  as  it  always  did.  Un- 
usual care  always  seemed  to  surround  the  old  gentle- 
man from  whatever  quarter.  He  was  beside  the 
younger  people  in  a  moment,  making  a  leisured  quo- 
tation from  Horace  about  simplicity,  capped  by  an 
amiably  scornful  remark  about  the  factitious  simplicity 
of  camp  life  with  two  guides  to  wait  on  one.  Whereat 
Sydney  hugged  him  irrelevantly  and  flashed  down  the 
path,  like  a  slim  boy  in  her  sweater  and  knicker- 
bockers, in  pursuit  of  some  wood-thing  she  thought  she 
saw.  When  Shore  laughed  at  her  for  the  vanity  of 
her  chase  she  snatched  his  cap  and  was  off  again,  he 
after  her.  They  were  like  two  happy,  wild  children. 

It  was  Arcady  and  Arden,  with,  by  grace  of  Uncle 
Andrew,  a  touch  of  the  Groves  of  Academe.  Life  went 
with  the  tingling  exhilaration  it  always  has  in  the 
Northern  woods  in  the  Fall.  Living  had  never  been  so 
complete,  so  effortless,  so  delightful.  Sydney  was 
merely  like  a  good  pal  sometimes;  there  were  other 
times  when  she  was  like  a  little  girl,  and  Malcolm 
found  himself  giving  her  the  amused  tenderness  he 
had  for  his  own  small  Barbara.  Sometimes  she  was 
an  elusive,  very  wise  and  thrilling  woman.  Always  he 
wanted  to  be  where  she  was,  always  to  learn  more 
about  her,  though  she  had  a  frankness  he  had  never 
known  a  woman  could  dare  have,  and  seemed  to  pour 


122  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

herself  out  to  him  as  willingly  and  constantly  as  he 
did  to  her. 

In  the  evenings  they  sat  by  the  camp-fire  with 
Uncle  Andrew,  in  that  content,  relaxed  intimacy  which 
only  camp-fires  can  give  in  perfection.  And  still  Mal- 
colm thought  it  was  only  comradeship.  Until  there 
came  a  night  when  'Tiste  claimed  calmly  as  a  right — 
and  Uncle  Andrew  accepted  it  the  same  way — the  old 
man's  ministry  to  a  sick  woman  down  the  lake,  and 
the  two  guides  paddled  him  down. 

Malcolm  and  Sydney  were  left  alone  in  the  tingling, 
pungent-scented  evening,  the  dusk  and  the  great  silent 
woods  and  the  great  fire  their  only  companions.  They 
talked  on  for  awhile,  and  gradually  ceased  talking,  in 
a  measureless  content.  Presently  Sydney  sprang  up 
to  put  more  wood  on  the  dying  fire.  It  was  one  of 
her  boyish  ways  never  to  ask  men  to  do  such  things. 
As  she  bent  across  Malcolm  her  long  thick  braid, 
fragrant  of  the  sweet  wood  smoke  and  of  pine,  brushed 
his  face. 

He  reached  up  and  caught  her  wrist  as  the  wood  fell 
on  the  fire.  Suddenly  flame  ran  from  her  hand  to 
his;  they  were  in  each  other's  arms  without  knowing 
how  they  had  done  it.  They  held  each  other  tight, 
kissed  passionately.  It  was  supremely  right,  supreme- 
ly wonderful.  She  was  everything  Malcolm  Shore  had 
need  unknowingly  for  years.  She  was  understanding 
and  fulfilment.  .  .  .  Presently  they  drew  a  little  from 
each  other,  and  sat  on  hand-in-hand,  talking  in  low, 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  123 

half-laughing  voices  about  the  wonder  fulness  of  the 
thing.  It  was  one  of  those  high  and  magical  hours 
which  come  only  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime.  They 
parted  finally  with  a  last  close,  certain  embrace  which 
seemed  already  one  of  those  things  which  had  always 
been  and  would  always  be. 

They  greeted  each  other  with  the  same  certainty 
when  they  met  next  morning,  and  walked  frankly 
down  one  of  the  wood-trails  together,  to  sit  in  a  little 
green-dappled  clearing,  walled  close  by  pines,  and 
talk  of  the  thing  as  it  was,  unafraid. 

Sydney  faced  the  thing  as  he  put  it  to  her  with  her 
divine  bravery.  He  tried  to  give  her  honesty.  He 
tried  to  be  just  to  Marjorie,  still  with  the  old  double 
consciousness  that  it  was  something  that  would  have 
jarred  on  him  somehow  in  another  man.  He  was  in- 
tent on  clearing  his  soul.  And  Sydney  accepted  what 
he  said  with  her  comradeship  and  honesty,  just  as  he 
gave  it.  Or  so  it  seemed. 

"But  isn't  it  right  I  should  give  up  the  lesser  for 
the  greater,  Sydney?"  he  said.  "I  gave  Marjorie  some- 
thing I  can  never  give  another  woman,  perhaps.  I 
want  to  acknowledge  that.  We  must  face  it  without 
pettiness.  But  you  and  I  have  something  to  give  each 
other  that  we  could  give  no  one  else.  It's  the  great 
thing — the  lifetime  thing." 

She  flung  back  her  head,  to  look  into  his  eyes  as 
they  stood  breast  to  breast. 

"Mind  and  soul  and  body — "  she  said.    It  seems 


124  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

real  to  me — the  most  real  thing  I  ever  knew.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Malcolm,  are  you  sure?  We  mustn't  hurt  that 
poor  woman  unless  it's  worth  it." 

"Do  you  suppose  I'd  shake  the  very  bases  of  my 
life  if  it  weren't  worth  it — or  ask  you  to,  you,  the 
most  wonderful  and  perfect  thing  God  ever  gave  me? 
Isn't  it  worth  it?" 

She  dropped  her  little  proud  head  on  his  shoulder 
with  a  shudder  that  was  nearly  a  sob. 

"It's  a  big  tide  sweeping  us  away — the  biggest  tide 
that  ever  rose.  We'll  be  brave — we'll  go  through  the 
necessary  things,  I  suppose  because  of  the  bigness 
of  our  belonging  together.  It's  the  great  thing." 

"The  great  thing — the  lifetime  thing,"  he  said  again, 
and  they  were  silent. 

They  came  down  the  little  wood-path  into  the  clear- 
ing around  the  tents,  as  they  had  gone,  openly  hand- 
in-hand.  Sydney  smiled  into  his  eyes  and  went  on 
with  her  buoyant  step  to  find  one  of  the  guides  for 
something.  Malcolm  turned  toward  his  own  tent,  to 
find  that  Andrew  Blanton  stood  facing  him  in  the 
entrance,  his  kind  old  peering  face  hurt  and  per- 
plexed. Malcolm  faced  him  quietly,  even  proudly. 
The  exaltation  still  held  him. 

"Let's  talk  about  it,"  said  Uncle  Andrew  gently. 

They  sat  down  on  the  camp-stools  by  the  tent 
door. 

"There  isn't  much  to  say,"  Malcolm  said  steadily. 
"We  love  each  other,  and  we're  going  to  be  honest 
about  it." 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  125 

"You  have  a  wife  and  children,"  Uncle  Andrew  said, 
his  face  still  wistful  and  hurt. 

"Yes,  and  I  love  them.  I'll  always  love  Marjorie  in  a 
way.  But  I've  outgrown  her.  I  know  now  that  I 
went  away  from  her  because  the  tie  between  us  was 
beginning  to  be  impossible.  It  would  be  worse  for 
her  to  go  on  being  married  to  me,  feeling  my  weari- 
ness of  her,  than  for  us  to  have  a  clean  break.  She's 
pretty  and  sweet,  she'll  marry  again.  But  Sydney 
and  I — well,  we're  mates." 

"How  do  you  know  you're  Sydney's  mate?  How 
do  you  know  you're  not,  fundamentally,  of  your  own 
wife's  ideals  and  viewpoints?" 

Malcolm  shook  his  head,  smiling.  The  proposition 
was  so  absurd. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Uncle  Andrew  sharply,  "that 
anything  can  have  turned  you  into  a  man  of  Sydney's 
generation.  My  impression  is  that  you're  no  excep- 
tion to  the  rule  that  there's  fifty  years  between  all  the 
rest  of  us  and  these  young  people  of  the  war.  You 
don't  seem  to  me  in  the  least  like  Sydney's  mates  as 
I've  run  across  them,  outrageous  young  imps  that  they 
are!  My  experience  of  your  kind,  which  is  long  if 
not  wide,  gives  me  the  impression  that  you  are  simply 
passing  through  the  moment  of  revolt  which  comes 
once  to  every  married  man." 

The  peering  whimsical  old  face  had  changed  all  in 
a  moment.  Why  had  he  never  seen,  till  now,  behind 
that  mask,  the  stern  wisdom  of  an  unafraid  shepherd 
of  souls?  For  it  had  always  been  there.  The  dim 


126  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

old  eyes  pierced  down  deep  into  him.  He  sat  silent 
as  the  old  man  went  dominatingly  on. 

"Once  to  every  married  man,"  he  repeated.  "I 
have  never  known  one  it  didn't  come  to,  harder  or 
lighter.  Some  never  admit  it  to  themselves.  Some  get 
it  lightly — little  flirtations.  Some  get  it  hard.  Harder 
than  it  deserves.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know,  boy — don't  you 
suppose  I'm  a  man  myself?  You've  seen  the  men 
your  age  footloose  to  mate,  all  around  you — "  (How 
had  he  known  about  Bill  Gorman's  cards,  and  Arthur 
Watson's  engagement,  and  .  .  .)  "You've  been  wild  to 
run  with  the  herd,  and  the  natural  instinct  of  the  male 
to  wander  has  helped  you.  And  on  top  of  it  you've 
found  one  of  the  women  you  would  have  married  if 
you'd  been  free.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  natural:  as  natural  as 
murder.  It's  instinct.  We  all  want  to  murder  people 
at  times,  but  we  don't  do  it.  If  you  hold  hard  it  will 
pass." 

"It  isn't  instinct,"  Malcolm  countered  furiously. 
"It's  my  mind,  my  soul,  all  the  better  part  of  me.  The 
physical  thing's  there,  but  it's  secondary." 

"Your  instincts  are  lying  things,"  said  Andrew 
Blanton.  "They  can  always  make  the  mind,  which  is 
much  younger  than  they  and  pitifully  trusting,  believe 
anything.  There's  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  this 
thing  between  you  and  Sydney  is  the  great  real  thing. 
There  are  ninety-nine  that  your  moment  of  revolt  has 
merely  found  you  close  to  one  of  the  half-dozen  women 
you  could  genuinely  Itrve.  But  you  took  your  road  ten 
years  ago.  It's  a  coward's  way  to  strike  down  another 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  127 

one,  because  it  seems  easier.  If  you  take  your  side- 
road  with  Sydney,  you  may  be  forming  a  habit  of  strik- 
ing down  all  the  other  cross-roads  you  are  bound  to 
come  to  from  time  to  time.  You  may  get  into  the  habit 
of  doing  it  every  ten  years,  or  perhaps  only  every  five — 
or  two.  I've  seen  that  happen.  What  you  plan  to  do 
is  to  lie  down  on  your  job.  In  your  heart  your  wife 
comes  first.  Go  back  to  her." 

He  turned  and  walked  away,  leaving  Malcolm  feel- 
ing as  if  a  storm  had  swept  him,  so  great  was  the 
power  and  personality  which  had  been  loosed  on  him 
from  this  old  man  he  had  loved,  to  be  sure,  but  loved 
amusedly,  as  one  would  a  child.  The  thunder  of  the 
words  still  vibrated  in  him.  ...  It  was  not  true.  It 
was  none  of  it  true.  Things  were  still  what  they 
had  been.  He  walked  in  the  direction  Sydney  had 
taken,  to  get  back  the  high  exaltation  of  their  mood 
together.  .  .  .  But  Sydney  had  gone  off  on  the  water, 
or  somewhere  else,  and  he  was  faced  instead  by 
Claude-Camille,  who  spoke  immediately  in  his  very 
bad  and  incongruous  Maine  English. 

"Ain't  no  letter.  Nobody  got  none  but  M.  le  cur£. 
You  was  lookin'  for  some,  wasn't  you?" 

He  had  been  expecting,  with  a  little  shiver  of  dis- 
taste, another  of  Marjorie's  conscientiously-mailed 
little  letters,  with  its  inevitable  catalogue  of  furnace- 
men  and  tennis-games  and  children's  small  brilliancies. 
It  was  exactly  time,  counting  the  two  days  and  the 
canoe-trip,  to  bring  mail.  But  she  hadn't  written.  .  .  . 
The  little  thrill  of  relief  he  expected  did  not  come.  He 


128  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

felt  lost,  somehow.  And  suddenly  he  was  faced  by 
the  fact  that  up  till  now  he  had  unconsciously,  while 
loving  Sydney,  as  he  thought,  with  everything  in  him, 
been  still  having  a  life  constructed  with  Marjorie  for 
a  base.  Could  it  be  that  the  affection  for  her  was  so  a 
part  of  him  that  he  didn't  know  it  to  be  there?  .  .  . 
That  was  foolish.  The  old  man  had  said  what  old 
men  have  to  say,  indeed,  he  had  been  more  kind  and 
unconventional  than  most  in  his  place  would  have  been. 
He  had  shaken  him.  ...  He  and  Sydney  had  faced 
the  great  step  now;  and  if  he  did  not  feel  a  wrench 
at  the  idea  of  giving  up  the  wife  he  had  lived  with 
for  ten  years  he  would  be  a  brute  indeed.  But  what 
he  had  said  to  Sydney  was  true — must  be  true.  Their 
love  was  the  great  thing,  the  thing  that  counted,  that 
was  worth  breaking  things  for.  ...  He  wished  she 
would  come  back  to  him,  so  that  in  her  warm,  brave 
presence  the  chilling  thoughts,  the  ridiculous  little  un- 
happiness  because  Marjorie  hadn't  written — Marjorie, 
who  wrote  like  clockwork! — would  slip  from  him.  He 
went  off  through  the  woods  alone,  hoping  to  come 
across  her.  But  though  he  searched  all  the  places 
where  they  two  had  played  together,  he  could  not  find 
her.  He  had  brought  lunch  along,  and  when  noon 
found  him  too  far  from  camp  to  make  it,  he  ate  it 
where  he  was,  and  went  on  hunting,  as  one  hunts 
sometimes  in  a  desolate  dream,  for  Sydney.  When 
he  found  her  about  five,  and  they  clung  in  each  other's 
arms,  it  was  a  heavenly  wakening.  They  went  back 
down  the  narrow  trail  in  the  old  way,  stopping  some- 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  129 

times  to  laugh  or  tease  or  kiss.  .  .  .  and  yet  something 
was  different — something  was  strange.  Sydney  seemed 
different.  He  knew  it  was  his  imagination,  that  the 
difference  lay  in  himself,  but  he  could  not  stop  feeling 
that  it  was  in  Sydney. 

There  were  two  days  more  of  this  troubled  rapture.. 
Uncle  Andrew  was  his  old  gentle,  whimsical  self.  He 
said  nothing  more;  you  would  have  thought  it  a  wild 
dream  that  he  had  ever  said  anything,  to  hear  him 
relating  at  relishing  length  a  quite  preposterous  legend 
about  a  trout  and  a  saint  named  Audaldus,  or  quoting 
Isaak  Walton  verbatim  from  his  unbelievable  memory. 
The  third  day  Sydney  called  Malcolm  Shore  to  come 
with  her,  in  a  way  that  he  knew  he  did  not  imagine 
was  strange. 

"I  can't  go  on  keeping  still  any  longer,"  she  said. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about — things." 

"I  thought  we'd  done  all  the  talking  there  was^ 
darling,"  he  said.  \ 

She  shook  her  head  and  beckoned  him  to  their  tryst- 
ing-nook  with  the  pine  walls.  She  put  up  a  guarding 
hand  as  he  bent  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

"No.  If  you  touch  me  I  can't  say  what  I  want 
to — it's  hard  enough,  just  with  you  near  me.  ...  You 
are  so  dear." 

Her  voice  was  scarcely  audible.  He  stood  from 
her,  the  vague  feeling  of  something  wrong  taking 
visible  black  shape  in  his  mind. 

"There  are  things  to  say  to  you — to  tell  you.  You 
told  me  about  your  wife.  I  didn't  tell  you  that  before 


130  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

I  came  down  here  I'd  just  broken  my  engagement, 
nor  why." 

She  stood  against  a  great  pine,  her  hands  clutched 
behind  her  on  it  as  if  it  gave  her  strength,  a  slim 
Rosalind-like  figure.  She  was  very  white  under  her 
brown. 

"I — loved  him  .  .  .  terribly.  He'd  done  something 
unforgivable,  I  thought.  We'd  been  apart  a  long  time 
— he  had  to  be  off  on  business.  And  when  he  came 
back,  when  it  seemed  I'd  never  loved  him  so  much  be- 
fore, some  devil  came  and  said  he'd  kissed  another 
girl.  I  asked  him,  and  he  said  yes.  He  said  there 
was  no  excuse  for  it,  but  he  wasn't  going  to  be  any- 
thing but  honest  with  me.  We'd  started  on  that  basis. 
He  said  all  the  usual  things  about  its  never  happen- 
ing again.  He  said  he'd  thought  I'd  understand,  that 
I  wasn't  the  usual  kind  of  woman  who  couldn't.  He 
had  been  dishonest  in  his  bargain,  and  he  wanted  me 
to  know  it.  He  said  that  some  day  the  tides  might 
get  me,  and  I'd  understand.  He'd  thought  I'd  under- 
stand, maybe,  anyway  ...  I  didn't.  I  was  just  the 
usual  old-fashioned  angel-cat  female  with  a  hurt  pride. 
I  smashed  things,  and  came  to  Uncle  Andrew's.  .  .  . 
I've  been  thinking  these  last  three  days,  and  I  think 
I  understand  now.  The  tides  have  caught  you  and 
me,  too.  And  all  things  as  they  are,  I  believe  I  must 
go  back  to  my  lover.  Because  I  can  understand  now, 
I  think.  He  said  that  after  this  he'd  be  strong  against 
the  currents,  if  there  were  any.  I  didn't  know  what 
he  meant  then.  I  do  now.  I  must  go  back,  and  we 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT  131 

must  go  on  playing  fair,  and  keeping  each  other  out 
of  the  tides'  way.  I  think  we  can  put  it  through.  I 
think  that's  the  sporting  way.  This — isn't." 

He  stood  staring  at  her  numbly. 

"But  I  thought  you  loved  me/'  he  said  tonelessly. 

Her  hands  clutched  the  tree  harder.  "You  said  a 
man  could  love  two  women  at  once.  I  suppose  it 
must  be  possible  to  love  two  men.  I  have  the  love. 
It  flows  to  you  now.  If  I  go  back,  I  think  he  will 
come  first  again.  I  think  there's  just — love.  Oh,  it's 
hard,  it's  horribly  hard!  But  I  believe  this  thing 
came  to  me  so  I  could  understand,  and  go  back  to 
him.  I  think  I  must.  It's  the  straight  way  for  you 
and  me." 

He  cried  out  jealously,  catching  her  in  his  arms 
with  a  rough  strength;  "You  do  love  me,  Sydney! 
There  couldn't  have  been  all  this  wonderful  thing 
between  us  if  you  didn't  care." 

He  felt  her  arms  tighten  about  him,  and  her  head 
dropped  helplessly  on  his  shoulder.  "Don't  hold  me! 
If  you  do  I  will  want  to  stay  too  much.  Be  merciful, 
Malcolm!" 

His  hold  slackened  for  a  moment  automatically  at 
her  words,  and  she  pulled  herself  from  him,  and  ran 
down  the  path.  He  began  to  follow;  but  she  was 
among  the  men  busied  near  the  tents  before  he  could 
reach  her.  He  paused  at  the  wood's  edge,  and  turned 
back  to  the  little  hallowed  place  inside  the  thick  pines, 
and  dropped  down  on  their  log  to  face  it  all.  It  was 
not  hopeless  yet.  He  could  have  her  if  he  would  fight 


132  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

her  for  herself,  and  he  would  fight.  .  .  .  Then  sud- 
denly he  saw  that  he  could  not.  Half  his  forces  were 
on  her  side  the  field.  He  felt  helpless,  inert.  Pas- 
sion, mental  oneness,  the  sense  of  youth  renewed; 
they  were  with  him  in  his  fight.  But  against  them — 

Once  to  every  married  man —  .  .  .  and  if  you 
fought  it  out  you  came  through  better  than  you 
started.  And  if  you  mistook  this  sudden  upleaping 
of  Spring  in  you  for  something  worth  smashing  the 
whole  fabric  of  your  life  and  other  lives  for — all  your 
decencies,  your  faith,  your  habitudes  and  plans  and 
beliefs — you  were  taking  a  doubtful  cross-road  instead 
of  going  straight  on  to  the  goal.  You  were  lying  down 
on  your  job.  .  .  .  Sydney — Sydney!  .  .  . 

He  went  through  hours  of  agony,  there  in  the  green 
place  where  he  and  Sydney  had  loved  each  other  so. 
But  in  the  end,  when  he  lifted  his  face  at  a  light  touch 
on  his  shoulder,  he  was  at  peace. 

"I  came  to  find  you,  son.  Some  of  your  mail  got 
mixed  with  mine — " 

He  looked  up  into  the  kind,  absent  old  face. 

"You  were  right,"  he  said.  "It  was  the  moment  of 
revolt.  I  almost  know  it  now;  or  if  I  don't,  I  shall 
•soon.  .  .  .  Uncle  Andrew,  ought  I  to  tell  Marjorie?" 

Uncle  Andrew  put  a  thin  old  arm  around  him.  It 
was  not  a  strong  arm,  but  it  felt  somehow  as  his 
father's  had  once  long  ago  when  he  was  a  frightened 
little  boy. 

"I  wouldn't,  son,"  said  Uncle  Andrew.  "It  isn't  as 
if  you  and  she  were  of  this  new  generation,  who  can 


THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

fling  those  things  at  each  other  without  being  scarrecE 
for  life.  You  mustn't  hurt  her.  .  .  .  And  beside,, 
you'd  have  to  confess  two  people's  sins  beside  your 
own.  Be  merciful  to  the  old  man.  I  hadn't  any  busi- 
ness to  lure  you  up  here,  so  you'd  get  the  thing  out  of 
your  system  under  my  own  interfering  old  paw.  But 
I'd  seen  as  fine  lads  as  you  go  on  the  rocks  because 
nobody  interfered.  .  .  .  Don't  tell  your  wife  on  me." 

There  was  a  half -humorous,  half  apologetic  smile 
on  his  kind  old  face.  But  deeper  than  that  was  a 
light  of  fatherhood  and  loving  yearning  so  real,  so- 
selfless,  that  Malcolm  found  he  could  not  answer  be- 
cause of  a  tightening  in  his  throat.  He  only  dropped 
his  head  for  an  instant  against  the  shabby  old  cape- 
overcoat,  as  if  he  had  been  in  reality  the  little  fright- 
ened, naughty  lad  of  long  ago,  found  and  brought 
home.  .  .  . 

The  two  canoes  parted.  Malcolm  turned  his  head 
to  watch  the  other  out  of  sight,  in  the  sunset  light  that 
glinted  on  Uncle  Andrew's  spectacles  and  Sydney's 
warm  dark  hair.  They  were  going  to  her  brother's 
camp,  where  her  lover  was.  He  could  not  be  sorry 
that  he  had  come  this  close  to  wonderful,  vivid  Sydney.. 
And  yet  her  ruthlessness,  her  attitude  of  understand- 
ing and  forgiving  because  she  had  herself  gone  through 
what  her  lover  had,  her  little  charming  arrogances  and 
scornfulnesses — would  they,  after  all,  have  been  an 
air  he  could  live  in?  He  recalled,  with  a  sense  of  re- 
membered warmth  and  comfort,  the  little  affectionate, 
conscientiously  detailed  letter  Uncle  Andrew  had 


134  THE  MOMENT  OF  REVOLT 

brought  him.  It  was  like  Marjorie.  Just  the  funny 
little  phrases  she  always  used.  And  a  snapshot  of 
herself  and  the  children,  on  the  lawn,  she  absurdly 
young  and  dainty  to  be  the  mother  of  three  of  them. 
.  .  .  Babs  was  getting  to  look  like  her — well,  she 
couldn't  do  better  .  .  .  Lord,  it  was  going  to  be  good 
to  get  back  to  it  all  again!  .  .  .  And  it  came  to  him 
all  in  a  great  warm  wave  how  well  things  were  with 
him.  These  men  and  girls  still  struggling  with  Ro- 
mance— they  were  still  righting  through  their  stormy 
seas  toward  the  hope  of — what  he  had.  He  was  out 
beyond  the  breakers. 

He  turned  his  head  once  more.  Only  the  flash  of 
water  on  a  paddle,  and  a  flutter  of  the  old  cape-coat 
could  be  seen,  so  far  apart  they  had  gone. 

"Going  home,"  said  Malcolm  Shore  to  himself  con- 
tentedly under  his  breath. 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

DANE  LEE  TOLLIVER  met  the  two  Polokoffs  nearly  at 
the  same  time.  Of  course,  a  part  of  the  shock  of  the 
whole  thing  was  because  he  did  not  know  they  were 
brother  and  sister.  It  was  just  one  of  those  queer 
little  twists  which  make  so  much  difference. 

When  nice,  romantic,  public-spirited  Aunt  Emily 
told  him  enthusiastic  tales  of  the  wonderful  little  Pole 
who  supported  herself  and  her  mother,  wrote  articles 
for  social  service  magazines  and  practically  controlled 
the  immigrant  population  which,  now  there  was  a 
factory,  flooded  the  lower  end  of  the  pleasant  old 
town  where  his  aunt  lived,  Dane  was  not  thrilled.  He 
rather  visualized  the  sort  of  bobbed  hair  which  goes 
with  bone  glasses,  and  a  tense  personality  which 
would  hurl  tracts  on  economics  on  all  who  passed. 
But  Aunt  Emily,  wily  as  well  as  public-spirited,  was 
determined  that  no  visitor  should  escape  being  shown 
her  pet,  and  when  she  drew  Dane  apologetically  into 
a  harmless  looking  lace-shop  it  was  Elsa  Polokoffs 
lace  shop. 

He  did  not  realize  in  the  least,  then,  that  this  Elsa 
was  that  Elsa.  She  was  more  Scotch  than  foreign- 
looking;  a  clear-cut  little  freckled  face  with  big  vel- 
vety brown  eyes  and  a  childlike  intentness  of  expres- 
sion. Only  her  full  red  lips,  and  a  touch  of  accent 

i3S 


i36  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

which  added  to  her  swift  winningness,  betrayed  that 
she  was  an  outlander,  not  Scotch  after  all.  Her  per- 
sonality was  vivid  and  appealing  at  once,  from  her 
curly  brown  hair  to  the  small  brown  hand  that  showed 
the  laces,  and  when  she  laughed  you  could  not  realize 
that  she  had  ever  written  an  article  in  her  life.  Dane, 
who  had  let  himself  be  dragged  in  Aunt  Emily's  train 
on  many  an  earnest-minded  errand,  found  himself  sud- 
denly excited  about  life,  and  very  glad  he  was  in  the 
same  room  with  Elsa.  He  had  the  American  business 
man's  infinite  affectionate  tolerance  for  his  women- 
folk; he  was  the  more  indulgent  to  Aunt  Emily's  ways 
because  she  and  his  sister  were  all  there  was  left  of 
that  branch  of  the  family.  It  had  been  an  exceedingly 
good  family,  too;  singers,  statesmen,  and  even  philan- 
thropists to  burn.  And  the  terrific  noblesse  oblige  of  a 
certain  type  of  old  American  ran  resistlessly  in  their 
veins,  one  and  all,  though  Aunt  Emily  had  perhaps 
more  than  her  share.  As  Verena,  the  irreverent  flap- 
per sister,  put  it,  Aunt  Emily  simply  ate  up  the  down- 
trodden. 

Elsa  did  not  seem  to  come  under  that  listing.  In- 
deed, she  was  so  warmly  feminine  that  you  thought  of 
that,  it  seemed,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else. 
Aunt  Emily  and  she,  it  appeared  were  doing  something 
connected  with  gymnasiums,  in  the  foreign  end  of 
town.  .  .  .  Why,  she  ought  to  have  been  motoring 
and  dancing,  instead  of  making  earnest  plans  like  that, 
and  selling  lace  to  take  care  of  herself  and  the  bundle- 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  137 

wrapped  old  mother  of  whom  he  caught  a  glimpse  as 
they  passed  out.  She  was  so  gay  and  so  young-seem- 
ing; though  she  was  twenty-seven,  Aunt  Emily  said. 

It  seemed  to  him  after  they  had  gone  that  they  had 
talked  together  for  a  long  time,  though  all  he  could 
remember  was  one  swift  sentence,  passionate  earnest 
in  between  her  flashing  gaiety,  about  starving  people 
in  Poland.  She  seemed  with  him,  after  they  had  gone, 
as  vividly  as  she  had  been  in  the  flesh. 

"Miss  Polokoff  stays  with  one,  somehow,  doesn't 
she?"  said  Aunt  Emily  as  they  got  home,  echoing  his 
thoughts  so  exactly  that  it  didn't  seem  like  Aunt  Emily, 
who  usually  moved  in  a  cloud  of  her  own.  "She  is 
wonderful,  really  .  .  .  these  new  Americans  have  so 
much  to  give  us.  .  .  ." 

He  hadn't  the  heart  to  pin  her  down  to  any  analysis 
of  the  hackneyed  phrase,  because  she  was  staying  with 
him  too,  Elsa.  He  let  Aunt  Emily  dilate  on  her  and 
her  clan,  which  it  appeared  was  filling  up  the  old 
American  suburb,  and  overflowing  thickly — as  he 
knew,  indeed, — into  Dorrance.  And  he  stayed  home 
when  Elsa  was  due  to  come  see  Aunt  Emily  a  night  or 
so  later.  It  was  late,  for  she  kept  her  shop  open  all 
hours,  and  seemed  to  do  other  things  besides,  having 
an  apparent  overcapacity  for  work.  He  watched  her 
as  she  talked.  Very  different  from  either  the  conven- 
tionally gay  women  he  knew  near  his  own  age,  or  the 
almost  as  conventionally  audacious  flappers  his  sister 
brought  about  the  house  in  the  holidays;  very  ardent, 


138  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

very  controlled,  frank  about  things  he  would  never 
think  of  speaking  of,  as  silent  about  things  he  did; 
intensely  different  and  with  a  personality  like  a  flame. 
He  had  arranged  with  her,  almost  before  he  knew  it, 
to  come  down  to  her  place  a  couple  of  nights  a  week 
and  show  her  about  book-keeping. 

When  she  had  gone — she  would  not  let  him  bring 
her  home — and  the  spell  of  her  lifted,  he  was  a  little 
surprised  at  what  he  had  arranged  so  swiftly,  but  not 
sorry.  He  wanted  to  see  more  of  her.  She  seemed, 
indeed,  as  if  she  had  "so  much  to  give,"  not  only  to 
her  new  country,  but  to  every  one.  Even  the  shuffling 
old  mother,  wrapped  in  her  inevitable  shawl,  bright- 
ened a  little  as  she  patted  her  daughter's  trim  shoul- 
der with  one  grimy  old  hand.  Dane  looked  at  her 
with  what  he  had  hoped  was  concealed  repulsion,  as 
he  sat  by  Elsa  at  the  table  behind  the  little  shop. 

"You  do  not  like  her?"  said  Elsa  swiftly,  but  with- 
out anger.  "Tell  me.  I  want  to  have  her  better;  I 
want  to  have  myself  better."  She  evidently  spoke  sin- 
cerely, so  Dane,  who  was  a  fairly  blunt  person,  an- 
swered her  frankly. 

"It's  hard  for  them  to  change  when  they're  as  old 
as  that.  But  I  think  you  should  get  her  to  wash  her 
hands  more.  Of  course,  the  dust — " 

"It's  not  dust,"  said  Elsa,  and  laughed. 

"Well,  I  suppose  the  American  idea  of  the  daily 
bath  would  seem  a  good  deal,"  said  Dane,  beginning 
to  feel  like  a  tactful  Americanizer. 

"The  daily  bath,"  said  Elsa,  looking  thoughtful. 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  139 

Then  she  laughed  again.  "I  don't  know.  I  think  I 
can  do  something." 

Her  own  little  brown  hands  were  beautifully  mani- 
cured. How  on  earth  had  she  managed  to  do  so  much 
for  herself?  .  .  .  They  went  on  with  the  books,  and 
Dane's  smooth  fair  head  and  Elsa's  little  brown  one 
bent  close  together,  and  they  were  all  the  better  friends 
for  the  sudden  excursion  into  improvements  for  Mrs. 
Polokoff. 

It  was  not  till  the  day  before  he  went  back — if 
you  could  call  a  drive  of  ten  miles  going  back — that 
he  realized  how  closely  he  had  been  drawn  to  Elsa. 
Nothing  keeps  a  man  from  a  woman  so  much  as  the 
sense  of  her  efficiency — which  is  an  inference  that  she 
can  do  without  him — and  Elsa  was  patently  efficient. 
But  when  he  came  down  to  give  her  her  final  lesson, 
earlier  than  usual,  because  he  wanted  more  time  with 
her,  quite  frankly,  he  did  not  find  her  waiting  for 
him  at  the  door  of  her  shop;  and  when  he  made  ad- 
venturous way  into  the  little  neat  inner  room,  she  was 
in  a  dark  corner,  crying. 

"So  tired — so  tired,"  she  said,  like  a  desolate  child, 
her  little  accent  stronger  than  usual,  in  her  relaxation 
to  grief.  Dane  was  not  of  the  men  who  are  dis- 
mayed and  annoyed  by  tears.  He  was  rather  a  poised 
and  thoughtful  man,  who  took  things  at  their  evident 
value;  and  Elsa  was  not  of  the  weeping  kind.  As  she 
sat  curled  helplessly  in  her  chair,  all  her  capacities 
had  slipped  off  like  a  cloak,  and  she  was  just  a  little 
tired  helpless  thing,  who  had  carried  too  much  of  a 


140  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

burden  too  bravely;  all  his  protectiveness  went  out  to 
her.  Just  a  child,  after  all,  to  his  thirty-four  years, 
in  spite  of  her  courage.  .  .  . 

He  soothed  her,  and  she  pulled  herself  together 
bravely,  but  they  were  closer  after  that,  because  when 
you've  quieted  a  little  sobbing  thing,  and  made  her 
feel  that  after  all  life  isn't  so  hard,  and  she  has  clung 
to  your  hand  and  you  to  hers,  somehow  something 
has  happened.  When  he  went,  her  brown  eyes  clung 
to  his  blue  ones,  and  their  hands  held  fast  again.  The 
wistfulness  and  straightness  and  bravery  of  her  went 
with  him  all  down  the  street. 

If  he  married  Elsa — for  the  thought  went  with  him 
too — there  would  be  no  opposition  from  his  family, 
such  as  there  was  of  it.  As  has  been  said,  they  had 
always  been  knights-errant,  male  and  female.  They 
would  love  her  all  the  more  for  her  past  sorrows,  and 
her  brave  fight  upward,  and  the  little  adorable  accent. 
As  for  his  friends,  they  too  would  accept  it  as  a  natural 
doing  of  the  Lee  Tollivers.  Their  errantry  was  char- 
tered, so  to  speak,  like  that  of  the  libertines  one  has 
always  heard  about.  They  had  of  tradition  a  sort  of 
license  to  rescue.  When  his  great  grandfather  had  lib- 
erated his  slaves  in  1850,  it  had  only  been  considered 
a  Lee  Tolliver  sort  of  thing;  when  his  grand-uncle  had 
endowed  Dor  ranee  University  with  a  half -million  and 
only  left  his  family  the  other  half,  the  family  had 
accepted  the  Lee-Tolliverness  of  it  calmly,  along  with  a 
perpetual  seat  on  the  Board  of  Governors,  and  so, 
minus  the  seat,  had  the  surrounding  countryside.  .  .  . 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE'1  141 

He  was  coming  back  to  see  her  soon,  he  had  told 
Elsa.  He  drove  back  to  Aunt  Emily's  for  his  final 
night  with  her,  a  little  warm  feeling  of  fitting  into  the 
world  in  general  and  of  perfect  adjustment  to  Elsa 
in  particular,  thrilling  him  all  over. 

Naturally,  when  he  was  back  in  Dorrance  he  found 
that  things  had  piled  up  in  his  absence.  A  hard  day 
with  his  stenographer  cleared  off  his  arrears  of  letters; 
two  more  pulled  things  back  into  pre-absence  shape; 
but  he  was  rather  tired  at  the  end  of  the  third  day. 
The  next  time  Aunt  Emily  decided  that  she  could 
live  without  him  no  longer,  he  decided,  he  would  make 
her  come  over  and  stay  with  him  and  Verena  awhile. 
Her  affairs  were  as  disentangleable  as  his,  though  she 
did  not  think  so.  He  looked  forward  a  little  lazily  to  his 
evening  at  home.  Old  Dr.  Blanton,  whimsical,  kindly, 
with  his  pleasant  aura  of  the  impossible  and  leisured 
Past,  was  coming  in  to  dinner,  to  see  Verena,  who  was 
one  of  his  particular  pets,  and  had  returned  from  her 
boarding-school  the  day  after  he  had  returned  from 
Aunt  Emily's.  Probably,  for  the  Tollivers  kept  an  in- 
formal welcomeness,  some  youth  might  drift  in  to  adore 
young  Verena,  or  she  might  have  telephoned  for  one  of 
her  girl  friends  to  run  in.  Amiable  old  Mrs.  Golds- 
borough  the  housekeeper  was  well  broken  in  to  ad- 
justable meals.  There  would  be  a  pitcher  of  some  cool 
drink  waiting  on  the  verandah,  for  it  was  a  hot 
day.  .  .  .  Poor  little  Elsa  would  have  to  be  in  that 
store  all  day  long.  ...  He  might  drive  over  and  take 
her  out  to-night. 


142  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

But  when  he  came  up  on  the  porch  the  placid  scene 
he  had  been  cooling  his  mind  with  was  not  there.  In- 
stead, at  the  door  stood  his  sister  Verena,  half-crying 
with  helplessness,  and  apparently  trying  to  send  away 
a  dogged-looking,  untidy  youth  who  was  talking  her 
down.  As  he  jumped  out  of  his  car  he  converged 
with  Dr.  Blanton,  making  his  way  more  hastily  than 
his  wont  in  the  direction  of  Verena. 

"Here,  what's  this?"  the  two  men  demanded,  Dr. 
Blanton  adding  a  "sir."  The  boy  turned  his  batteries 
on  them. 

"I  tell  the  young  lady,  I  say,  for  the  love  of  heaven 
and  your  own  mother,  lady,  I  say,  grant  me  just  one 
chance  to  get  my  college  education!  I  say — " 

Dr.  Blanton  laughed,  which  did  not  stop  either  the 
boy's  vehement  gestures  with  a  pencil  and  pad  or  his 
air  of  determined  grovelling. 

"Let  us  talk  to  him,  Verena,  my  dear.  If  you  have, 
as  this  young  man  seems  to  feel,  a  college  education 
in  your  pocket,  you  should  not  be  cruel.  .  .  .  She 
hasn't,  my  son.  Now,  tell  us  about  it." 

The  old  man's  coolness  quieted  the  ridiculous  little 
scene  curiously;  the  boy  and  girl  both  stopped  their 
excitement.  He  turned  to  Dr.  Blanton,  who  sat  him- 
self leisurely  down  on  a  rocker,  adjusting  his  glasses 
with  deliberation,  and  began  all  over  again,  rather 
more  slowly. 

"I  keeping  telling  the  young  lady,  it  for  my  college 
education!  Only  three  little  dollars  in  taking  a  new,, 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  143- 

a  quite  new  magazine,  and  I  am  helped  to  win  most 
votes;  I  get  a  college  education!" 

His  attitude  was  one  of  frank  wonder  that  the  magic 
word  "college"  had  not  made  Verena  immediately 
present  him  with  the  three  dollars. 

"But  it  isn't  a  new  magazine — it's  one  Lucy  Lati- 
mer's  father  writes  for,"  said  Verena  impatiently. 
"And  he  simply  shouted  me  down,  and  then  groveled. 
And  his—" 

"It  is  new  magazine!  Fine  magazine  just  come  out, 
I  tell  you.  Would  you  keep  a  poor  boy  from  a  col- 
lege education,  in  free  country?"  He  gestured  vio- 
lently. "What  a  girl  know  about  which  magazine  it 
is?"  He  came  closer  to  Dr.  Blanton,  who  seemed  to 
have  charge  of  things,  vehement  and  unwashed,  and 
insistent  on  his  ideas. 

Before  he  was  finally  sent  away  he  had  told  two 
or  three  outright  lies  and  denied  them  again;  he  had 
groveled  with  waving  hands  and  discoursed  on  their 
mothers;  he  had  mentioned  in  an  emotional  manner 
the  persecution  of  denying  him  privileges  as  worthy 
as  this  in  a  land  of  freedom;  and  finally  gone  away, 
apparently  not  a  whit  the  worse  or  the  better  for  his 
argument. 

Verena  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Whew — I'm  dead!  Let's  go  get  our  dinner. 
Uncle  Andrew,  how  on  earth  could  he  pass  an  exami- 
nation, even  if  the  magazine  did  pay  his  tuition?" 

"My  dear  Verena,  brains  and  ethics— or  even  brains 


144  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

and  judgment — or  brains  and  bathing — do  not  neces- 
sarily go  together.  See  de  Gourmont  on  the  associa- 
tion of  ideas,"  replied  Uncle  Andrew,  stepping  aside 
to  let  her  go  in  the  door.  "You  will  find  him  extremely 
helpful  in  clarifying  your  thought,  though  I  don't  know 
that  you  would  either.  Our  young  friend  just  gone 
has  doubtless  read  more  philosophy  than  you'd  think. 
But  he  hasn't  assimilated  it.  The  young  don't — 
though  I  feel  a  temerity  in  blaming  even  such  a  speci- 
men of  the  young  as  has  just  departed,  in  the  present 
age!" 

"Oh,  I  know — the  demon  Younger  Generation!" 
said  Verena  with  a  jerk  of  her  slim  shoulders,  and 
an  affectionate  squeeze  of  Dr.  Blanton's  meagre  arm 
to  mitigate  it.  "But  he  wasn't  Younger  Generation,  ex- 
cept incidentally;  he  was  horridly  Bolshevik.  .  .  .  Oh, 
it's  nice  to  get  back  to  your  mines  of  information, 
and  good  old  Dane's  earnest  helpfulness  in  the  world. 
How's  Aunt  Emily,  Dane — as  many  little  tame  Causes 
as  ever?" 

"Rather  more,  I  think,"  said  Dane,  smiling,  and  a 
little  uneasily  conscious  that  Elsa — his  wonderful 
Elsa! — might  rank  as  a  tame  cause  in  Verena's  mock- 
ing young  mind.  But  Verena  was,  being  of  her  day, 
very  solemn  about  herself.  Presently  she  was  relating 
with  vivid  eyes  her  wonderful  plans  for  a  Poetry  So- 
ciety, to  be  constructed  by  herself  during  the 
summer  vacation.  That  it  might  rank  as  a  Cause  was 
a  suggestion  her  brother,  conscious  of  the  family  bias, 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  145 

did  not  hint.  And  presently  she  stopped  full  in  the 
middle  of  her  talk  to  say  doubtfully: 

"Perhaps  we  should  have  given  him  his  three  dollars 
after  all.  .  .  .  If  only  he  hadn't  been  so  horrid.  .  .  . 
But  perhaps  college  would  teach  him  to  tell  the  truth 
and  not  cringe  and  talk  about  persecution — what  do 
you  think,  Uncle  Andrew?  And  not  try  to  cheat," 
she  added  thoughtfully,  for  their  visitor  had  certainly 
made  several  efforts  at  misrepresentation. 

"I  think  it  might  have  been  better  if  he  had  learned 
all  that  some  time  ago/7  said  Uncle  Andrew  with  placid 
ambiguity. 

"He's  not  college-timber,"  said  Dane,  and  then, 
with  a  sudden  memory  of  Elsa,  "but  we  certainly  owe 
them  equal  opportunities." 

"If  they  are  equally  worthy,"  said  Uncle  Andrew 
dreamily.  "We  mustn't  discriminate  against  ourselves, 
you  know,  Dane,  because  we  had  the  misfortune  of 
being  born  decent.  It  isn't  really  wrong  of  us." 

They  laughed,  and  the  talk  slid  back  to  Dorrance 
University.  Dr.  Blanton  was  on  the  Board  of  Gov- 
ernors, as  well  as  Dane. 

"The  application  list  is  promising  to  be  overcrowded 
this  year,"  said  Uncle  Andrew.  "If  our  young  friend 
with  the  rug-seller  manners  is  as  brilliant  as  I  some- 
how judge  him  to  be,  he  will  probably  crowd  out  some 
friend  of  yours,  Renie.  Young  Walter  Dabney,  for 
choice." 

Verena  looked  horror-struck,  but  only  for  a  moment. 


146  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

"Oh,  but  that  couldn't  possibly  happen/'  she  said, 
cheering  up.  "The  magazine  boy  couldn't  even  use 
good  English." 

Dr.  Blanton,  except  when  he  forgot  and  sat  up  read- 
ing, went  to  bed  early,  and  Verena  was  called  up  and 
immediately  afterwards  descended  on  by  a  squadron 
of  friends,  male  and  female.  Mrs.  Goldsborough 
could  be  trusted  to  hover  .about  sufficiently,  so  when 
Dane  had  taken  Dr.  Blanton  home  there  was  still  time 
for  him  to  drive  back  the  short  ten  miles  that  lay  be- 
tween him  and  Elsa.  She  was  rarely  through,  these 
summer  evenings,  till  nine  or  so,  and  he  could  drive 
her  in  the  cooling  air  till  half  past  eleven,  he  counted, 
and  get  back  home  by  twelve. 

The  little  shop  was  closed,  except  for  one  glimmer- 
ing light,  and  he  rang,  and  then  passed  in,  in  the  way 
he  was  accustomed  to  doing.  She  should  have  been 
sitting,  with  her  little  intent  manner  like  a  busy  child, 
at  the  table  with  her  books.  But  she  was  not.  She 
was  standing  in  the  little  room,  whose  table  was  still 
spread.  Her  mother,  talking  swiftly  in  her  own  lan- 
guage, and  another  vehement,  gesturing  figure,  seemed 
between  them  to  fill  the  room. 

Dane  seemed  to  grasp,  almost  as  if  it  had  been  one 
of  those  things  one  has  always  known,  that  Elsa  and 
the  boy  were  brother  and  sister.  His  identity  with 
the  magazine-seller  of  the  earlier  evening  came  a  sec- 
ond later,  with  a  shock  that  he  could  not  help,  though 
he  reproved  himself  for  its  snobbery. 

Elsa  turned  when  he  came  in,  with  a  little  quick 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE''  147 

cry  of  gladness,  and  then  seemed  to  pull  herself  toward 
a  little  less  cordiality  and  a  little  more  dignity,  as  she 
introduced  her  brother.  His  name  was  Michael,  or 
what  sounded  like  it. 

The  moment  might  have  been  a  little  awkward  for 
Dane,  but  it  was  not  in  the  least  so  for  Michael.  He 
rushed  forward  with  beaming  amiability. 

"I  have  known  this  gentleman  before.  How  fine 
that  he  is  your  friend,  Elsa!  I  am  sure  he  is  a  good 
friend  to  all  he  knows.  I  was  talking  to  him  and  his 
sister  this  afternoon  about  taking  magazines  from  me 
to  get  a  college  education."  (The  old  mother,  getting 
a  word  or  two  of  this,  beamed  with  frank  pride  in 
the  background — a  pride  which  she  had  never  shown 
in  Elsa.)  " Perhaps  he  will  take  one  or  even  two  years 
from  me  now,  if  he  is  your  friend.  Elsa  will  tell  you 
that  it  is  true  I  can  have  the  college  education  by  sell- 
ing the  magazines,  will  you  not,  Elsa?" 

He  made  a  dart  toward  the  pad  over  which  he  had 
tried  to  browbeat  little  Verena,  and  approached  Dane 
with  what  Verena  would  have  described  as  a  "heavy 
fawn."  It  would  have  been  funny  if  it  had  not  been 
horrible.  The  horribleness,  of  course,  Dane  realized, 
with  another  twitch  of  conscience  and  of  noblesse 
oblige,  lay  in  this  bowing,  eager  creature's  relationship 
to  Elsa.  Dane  could  not  help  glancing  at  her.  But  she 
stood  very  still,  her  little  eager  face  held  into  an  un- 
usual immobility. 

"All  right.  Here,  I'll  take— what  is  it?  Here's  five 
dollars,"  said  Dane  to  end  the  scene,  and  partly  be- 


148  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

cause  he  felt  he  should,  after  all.  "I  came  to  see  if 
you  could  go  for  a  little  drive  with  me,  just  an  hour 
or  so,  Miss  Elsa.  We  could  take  Aunt  Emily  if  you 
liked." 

The  boy  took  the  money  with  more  bowings  and 
beamings  and  thanks.  Elsa  did  not  seem  to  want 
to  go,  very  much.  Neither  did  Dane,  to  be  frank. 
The  whole  affair  had  spoilt  his  boyish  anticipation 
of  the  hours  with  Elsa.  It  was  made  sullied,  some- 
how; the  more  that  the  brother,  with  still-waving 
hands,  and  still  more  groveling  exuberance,  if  the  two 
things  can  be  combined,  insisted  her  into  it. 

But  once  out  of  the  hot  little  overfilled  room,  with 
its  loud  voices  and  odors  of  food,  the  old  magic  fell 
on  them.  The  car  sprang  forward  through  the  vel- 
vety, cool  night-wind,  and  he  felt  the  strong  vibration 
of  Elsa's  presence  at  his  side,  and  blamed  himself  for 
over-sensitiveness.  He  was  not  a  very  imaginative 
person,  Dane  Tolliver;  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school, 
perhaps;  apt  to  be  sensitively  strict  with  himself,  and 
to  judge  that  other  people  must  be  high-minded  be- 
cause he  was.  An  incongruous  severity  after  a  cer- 
tain point — a  far  one — was  reached,  was  perhaps  the 
outcome  of  this  judgment.  But  he  did  not  often  ar- 
rive at  it. 

"My  brother  is  very,  very  clever,"  said  Elsa  with 
a  note  of  pride  in  her  voice.  "I  only  went  through 
grammar-school;  I  had  to  work  then,  so  I  couldn't 
go  any  more,  except  at  nights  to  the  Settlement  in 
New  York.  Michael  went  through  high-school." 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  149 

"Then  how  is  it  you  speak  so  much  better  English?" 
demanded  Dane,  holding  back  the  rest  of  the  questions 
on  the  point  of  their  difference,  out  of  sheer  decency. 

Her  great  dark  eyes  lighted  eagerly,  as  she  turned 
her  little  vivid  face  to  his  in  the  half-darkness. 

"Because  Michael  was  so  set  on  getting  studies. 
You  have  to  watch — oh,  so  hard — to  speak  good  Eng- 
lish. He  says  a  degree  will  get  him  much  farther 
ahead  than  anything  else.  He  says  he  can  pick  up 
other  things  afterwards,  or  even  if  he  doesn't,  when 
he  has  made  money—" 

"But  you  know  that  isn't  true,  Elsa.  Self-respect 
is  worth  a  great  deal;  more  than  anything  else,  we 
think." 

She  looked  a  little  downcast  in  the  darkness.  Then 
she  spoke  defiantly. 

"Self-respect  is  a  very  expensive  luxury  for  the 
poor." 

Dane  was  first  rebuffed  by  what  she  had  said  in 
her  clan-feeling,  then  began  to  think  of  it.  ...  Yes. 
.  .  .  perhaps  over  there  it  had  been  different,  a  place 
where  self-respect  was  hard.  ...  He  was  in  love  with 
Elsa,  that  was  the  long  and  the  short  of  it.  And  in  his 
love  and  in  his  desire  to  be  fair  to  these  people  who  had 
had  so  much  less  chance  than  he — Aunt  Emily's 
phrases  trooped  into  his  mind  and  stayed  there — he 
built  excuses  in  his  mind  for  the  alternate  fawning 
and  snarling  of  Elsa's  brother.  He  was  a  prospective 
citizen,  who  had  come  eagerly  to  America  with  high 
expectations  of  the  golden  gifts  she  had  for  him; 


150  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

he  should  not  be  crushed  by  disappointments.  The 
opportunity  denied  him  over  there  should  be  given 
him  full  measure  here.  The — 

...  But  nevertheless  it  was  a  comfort  to  find  that 
he  and  Elsa  were  only  half-brother  and  sister! 

"He  is  working  so  hard  to  get  the  highest  number 
of  subscriptions,"  Elsa  had  said,  with  that  little  note 
of  warmth  in  her  voice  that  a  woman  only  has  for 
her  child,  or,  sometimes,  the  younger  brother  or  sister 
whom  she  has  mothered.  .  .  .  Perhaps  .  .  .  after 
all  ...  He  turned  to  Elsa  at  his  side,  and  began  to 
question  her  about  herself.  It  was  a  story  of  bravery, 
of  hard  work,  of  supporting  at  first  the  younger  half- 
brother,  and  finally  the  old  mother;  and,  on  the  whole, 
he  could  not  help  seeing,  of  wonderful  help  given  her 
from  first  to  last.  Settlements,  people  at  lectures, 
people  where  she  worked,  after  the  first  six  months 
of  her  childhood  in  a  sweat-shop — everywhere  the 
whole  machinery  of  helpfulness  had  helped  Elsa  move 
forward,  from  the  time  when  she  came  over  as  a 
small  child.  An  uncle  had  helped  to  support  her  till 
she  had  finished  grammar-school.  After  that  every 
one  in  the  family  had  focused  on  Michael,  who,  ap- 
parently, had  focused  quite  as  wholeheartedly  on  him- 
self. The  old  mother,  the  uncle,  even  a  cousin  in 
Poland,  had  helped  Michael  ahead,  at  all  possible 
costs.  The  lower  West  side  school  he  had  gone 
through  with  flying  colors,  as  far  as  book-learning 
was  concerned,  had  lifted  him  to  the  point  where  he 
was  perfectly  capable  of  passing  his  entrance  exami- 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  151 

nations  for  college.  Once  he  had  won  this  competi- 
tion which  the  Woman's  Outlook  had  instituted,  and 
his  sister  seemed  both  passionately  anxious  and  ex- 
ceedingly sure  he  would,  he  would  go  through  Dor- 
ranee  University,  and  then  become  a  doctor  or  a 
lawyer.  He  had  chosen  Dorrance  because  of  its  su- 
perior prestige,  Elsa  said  frankly.  And  he  had 
planned  having  his  mother  and  sister's  business  near 
enough  so  he  could  live  with  them,  which  would  be 
cheaper. 

All  Elsa's  devotion  and  passion  were  concentrated, 
Dane  could  see  plainly,  on  the  brother  and  his  career. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  her  to  question  why  he 
should  be  pushed  ahead  at  her  expense;  she  was  willing 
and  glad  that  it  should  be  so.  But  presently,  as  the 
car  drove  slowly  now  through  the  cooling  evening, 
Dane  forgot  about  the  brother.  Elsa  herself,  with  her 
charm  and  her  ardent  feelings  and  her  quick  articulate- 
ness;  yes,  and  her  eyes  and  her  little  deft  hands  and 
her  voice  with  its  sweetness  and  quaint  precision,  were 
all  that  the  world  contained.  Himself  a  man  of  no 
great  articulateness,  to  whom  things  were  the  harder 
to  express  the  more  deeply  he  felt  about  them,  Elsa's 
swift  flexibility  of  mind  and  capacity  for  self-expres- 
sion had  an  especial  charm.  Men  of  his  type  are 
drawn  either  by  what  is  most  like  them  or  what  is 
most  different;  and  Dane  was  drawn  to  Elsa  by  their 
differences. 

Elsa  herself  had  forgotten  about  the  business  of 
life;  nearly  about  the  brother,  it  seemed,  by  the  time 


152  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

they  had  come  back  to  her  house.  There  was  still  a 
little  light.  He  drove  away,  building  all  sorts  of 
dreams.  It  is  probable  that  Elsa,  going  sedately  to 
bed  in  her  little  hot  room  where,  now,  the  old  mother 
slept  also,  had  her  dreams  as  well. 

Dane  went  on  with  the  routine  business  of  his 
work  and  play.  Most  men  can  do  this,  even  when 
they  are  walking  on  air,  and  carrying  on  a  courtship 
with  the  one  girl  in  all  the  world.  But  the  routine,  at 
this  time,  makes  very  little  impression  on  them.  Aunt 
Emily,  deep  in  her  welfare  work  for  her  village,  no- 
ticed, and  beamed  romantically  but  in  silence.  She 
was  a  well-bred  aunt  who  kept  her  mouth  shut. 
Verena,  in  the  full  tide  of  life  at  its  most  excellent — 
as  the  life  of  sixteen  is  said  to  be  nowadays — noticed 
nothing  much,  not  even  when  Dane  drove  her  over 
to  see  Elsa  and  took  the  girls  out  together.  She  was 
fascinated  by  Elsa,  as  most  people  susceptible  to  charm 
were,  and  forgot  about  her  next  day.  As  for  Dr. 
Blanton,  the  little  family's  closest  intimate,  he  was 
accounted  too  much  a  dreamer  to  worry  about  affairs 
not  his  own.  If  Dane  had  been  negotiating  for  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  incunabula,  now,  it  would  have 
been  different,  doubtless. 

And  so  it  was  rather  a  thunderbolt  when  Dane, 
one  evening  when  he  had  not,  for  decency's  sake,  gone 
again  to  see  Elsa — he  had  seen  her  three  times  that 
week — found  a  flushed  and  passionate  Elsa  on  his 
own  porch,  at  five  o'clock.  For  Elsa  to  leave  her 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  153 

cherished  business  at  quarter  past  four,  as  she  must 
have  done  to  take  the  trolley  over  to  Dorrance,  meant 
that  something  rather  wild  must  have  occurred. 

She  had  been  holding  him  off — definitely  keeping 
him  from  what  they  both  knew  was  the  formality 
only  of  actual  speaking  of  their  marriage;  but  as  he 
came  up  the  steps  she  caught  his  hands  with  a  cry 
that  swept  away  the  last  fragile  straw  barrier  be- 
tween them,  and  landed  her  in  his  arms. 

"Elsa — Elsa  darling,  what  is  it?"  he  said  anxiously, 
drawing  her  into  the  house. 

She  lay  still  in  his  hold  for  a  moment,  as  if  pro- 
tection and  love  were  very  good.  Then  she  drew 
away  and  began  to  talk  vehemently. 

"It  is  Michael.  You  can  help  us — you  must  help 
us.  You  love  me;  I  know  you  do.  And  I  love  you. 
He  has  got  the  award  of  the  magazine.  He  can  pay 
his  tuition  in  the  college.  And  they  are  persecuting 
him.  Because  he  is  foreign,  they  will  not  let  him  in. 
He  has  passed  examinations,  good  examinations,  and 
because  they  wrote  and  asked  his  school  principal  if 
he  was — oh,  I  do  not  know  what — if  he  made  friends, 
and  if  he  had  public  spirit — as  if  a  boy  his  age  could 
have  public  spirit!  .  .  ." 

Till  now  the  delight  of  her  in  his  arms,  and  the 
frankness  of  her  facing  their  love — for  he  had  been 
afraid  for  some  little  time  now,  so  steadfastly  had 
she  held  away  from  him,  that  she  did  not  care  for 
him,  that  he  had  not  paid  much  attention  to  what 


154  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

she  was  saying.  He  had  always  rather  shut  Michael's 
relationship  to  her  out  of  his  mind,  anyway,  as  one 
does  half -admittedly  disagreeable  things.  But  now, 
though  still  holding  her,  and  in  a  tension  of  happiness 
because  of  it,  he  spoke,  as  he  could  not  help  speak- 
ing; as  any  one  of  the  Lee  Tollivers  would  have 
spoken  since  the  first  one  came  away  from  a  very 
comfortable  estate  in  England  for  conscience'  sake. 

"Any  boy  of  any  age  should  have  public  spirit. 
You  know  that  if  you  stop  to  think,  Elsa." 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  she  said  angrily. 

"It  is  what  you  have  yourself,  when  you  work 
with  Aunt  Emily  on  your  village  improvement  plans," 
he  told  her  gently.  "And  you're  talking  a  little  wildly, 
dear,  when  you  talk  of  persecution.  Haven't  you 
always  been  helped,  yourself?  People  are  just  as 
ready  to  help  your  brother." 

"If  you  think  that  is  so,  then  help  him,"  said  Elsa 
tensely.  "He  will  be  your  brother  too,  if  you  marry 
me — unless  you  do  not  want  to  marry  a  poor  girl,  a 
peasant,  from  a  strange  country — without  money — 
without  friends — without  any  of  the  grand  things 
you  have!" 

He  looked  at  her  strangely. 

"Elsa,  is  that  what  you  think  of  me?" 

She  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!  I  am  nearly  wild  with  it  all. 
Michael  walks  up  and  down  the  house  and  talks  of 
it  all  day  long.  He  says  they  persecute  him — and 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  155 

indeed,  isn't  it  persecution  to  keep  a  boy  from  col- 
lege, who  can  pay,  and  who  has  passed  the  examina- 
tion?" 

Elsa  was  very  warm  and  vibrant  in  his  arms.  He 
loved  her  very  dearly. 

"It  doesn't  seem  fair,"  he  said. 

"Then  you'll  make  all  the  others  stop  it?  You  are 
on  the  Board  of  Governors.  I  know.  Michael  found 
out.  It  is  the  old  clergyman,  the  one  Michael  saw 
the  first  day,  when  he  tried  to  sell  your  sister  the 
magazine,  who  is  his  head  persecutor,  Michael  says." 

Dane  laughed  aloud  in  the  revulsion  of  his  feelings. 
Old  Uncle  Andrew,  kindest  and  saintliest  of  men, 
most  ineffectual  and  dreamy  soul  on  earth?  He  was 
on  the  faculty,  holding  a  chair  of  some  dreamy  lan- 
guage which  not  one  student  in  twenty  ever  elected, 
Dane  remembered  now.  But  as  a  trampler  of 
Michael ! 

"Uncle  Andrew  as  a  persecutor  is  simply  plain 
funny,  Elsa,"  he  said,  when  she  looked  at  him  indig- 
nantly. "He  couldn't  persecute  a  mosquito.  His  very 
housekeeper  rides  over  him  rough-shod.  Your 
brother's  excited.  I  seem  to  remember  that  he  excited 
easily,"  he  couldn't  help  adding.  The  whole  thing 
was  too  funny,  with  Uncle  Andrew  in  it! 

But  it  was  not  funny  to  Elsa,  he  was  to  find.  Elsa, 
too  easily  in  earnest,  too  easily  tragic  under  her  little 
quick  bright  ways,  was  tragic  now. 

"You  don't  love  me,"  she  said,  as  other  women 


156  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

have  said  before  her.  "And  even  if  you  do,  it  will 
do  you  no  good.  ...  I  will  never  see  you  again,  if 
you  do  not  make  them  let  Michael  into  college. " 

"Single-handed?"  Dane  tried  to  be  light  about  it. 
"My  child,  I  might  stand  out  forever,  and  if  the  rest 
of  the  board  were  against  me  it  wouldn't  do  any  good. 
This  is  still  more  or  less  of  a  democracy." 

She  considered,  this  awhile,  her  finger  on  her  lip. 
Her  eyes,  still  wet,  looked  up  at  his  piteously;  she 
was  like  an  animal  fighting  for  its  young. 

"But  you'll  do  everything  you  can  to  make  them 
have  Michael?"  she  begged. 

"Everything,"  said  Dane,  for  the  old  Lee  Tollivers 
had  their  hands  on  his  shoulder,  "in  fairness." 

"Everything!"  said  Elsa  passionately,  "or  I  will 
never  see  you  as  long  as  I  live." 

It  might  have  been  just  a  girl's  threat;  but  he 
knew  already  his  Elsa's  immovability  when  such  things 
as  these  were  in  question;  and  the  strength  of  pur- 
pose which  had  carried  her  where  she  was  to-day 
could  be  trusted  to  hold  her  to  what  she  was  saying 
now,  even  though  she  looked  at  him  with  love  as  she 
said  it. 

The  struggle  went  on  until  he  took  her  home.  As 
he  left  her  at  the  door  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Michael, 
rushing  across  the  floor  to  find  out  what  success  she 
had  had.  Somehow  the  sight  jarred  on  him. 

He  did  not  realize  that  there  was  so  much  serious- 
ness in  the  matter  until  he  attended  the  meeting  of 
the  Board  of  Governors. 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  157 

He  dropped  into  a  seat  by  Dr.  Blanton. 

"I  hear  you've  become  a  Head  Persecutor,  Uncle 
Andrew,"  he  said,  lightly,  and  yet  with  a  certain 
anxiousness. 

But  the  old  man  did  not  smile;  he  looked  troubled. 
"I  hope  not — I  hope  not,"  he  said. 

"Just  how  do  things  stand?"  he  asked. 

"The  lists  are  overcrowded,"  said  another  member 
of  the  board,  from  Dr.  Blanton's  other  side.  "We 
have  to  weed  pretty  sharply.  A  college  only  holds 
so  many.  Desire  for  learning  is  admirable,  I  sup- 
pose," he  added,  with  a  half -laugh. 

Dane  looked  around  the  little  room  at  the  governors, 
alumni  all,  good  men  and  true;  some  better  and 
some  worse  than  others,  of  course,  but  all  honest, 
according  to  their  better  or  worse  lights;  all  public- 
spirited,  so  far  as  he  knew,  and  loving  their  college 
as  one  loves  the  things  one  has  not  only  known  in  boy- 
hood, but  worked  for  and  given  to.  He  tried  to  re- 
member that  he  was  bound  to  be  prejudiced  in  favor 
of  men  who  were  his  old  friends;  to  think  that  they 
were  bound  to  be  right.  But  even  with  all  the  pres- 
sure he  brought  on  his  own  sensitive  conscience,  he 
could  not  feel  that  they  would  be  unfair.  Narrow,  per- 
haps. ...  He  must  remember  that.  He  must  throw 
all  his  influence  against  narrowness,  class  prejudice, 
overvaluation  of  standards  because  they  were  one's 
own.  .  .  .  Nevertheless  the  memory  of  shrieking,  un- 
self -respecting  young  Michael,  speaking  to  Verena  as 
she  had  never  been  spoken  to  in  her  life  for  the  sake 


158  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

of  forcing  her  to  buy  something  she  did  not  need  or 
want,  intensified  itself  before  his  mind. 

While  he  had  been  thinking,  sunk  in  himself,  a  dozen 
candidates  had  been  reviewed  rapidly.  The  Board  of 
Governors  was  sitting  only  on  the  doubtful  cases; 
naturally  there  were  a  proportion  of  boys  who  had 
been  passed  unquestionably.  There  were  six  or  seven 
more  on  the  list  than  could  be  crowded  in  by  any 
possible  effort,  after  what  seemed  almost  a  too  severe 
heightening  of  the  scholarship  requirements. 

He  helped  the  men  discuss  pro  and  con  a  score  of 
cases  before  they  reached  Michael.  He  was  braced 
for  what  defense  he  could  give,  but  curiously  enough 
found  it  was  not  necessary.  With  the  mention  of 
Michael  Polokoff s  name  the  vice-head  of  the  local 
settlement  house,  one  of  the  two  women  on  the  board, 
sprang  to  arms  for  him. 

"He  has  passed  a  wonderful  entrance  examination," 
she  said.  "That's  admitted.  And  he  has  worked  as 
no  native  American  could  work,  to  earn  the  prize  of 
tuition  that  a  magazine  offered.  I  have  talked  to 
him  myself.  He  has  the  most  wonderful  ideals.  .  .  „ 
We  do  not  realize  how  much  our  new  element  .  .  ." 

"Has  to  give  us,"  Dane  finished  the  cliche  in  his 
mind,  and  then  heard  Uncle  Andrew  say  in  a  sharply 
cut  voice  very  unlike  his  ordinary  one,  "What?" 

Miss  Dabney  was  a  little  posed.    She  stammered. 

"Why — why — new  enthusiasm  1  Love  of  beauty > 
wonderful  clan  feeling.  .  .  ." 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  159 

"Ethics?" 

"Wonderful  ethics!  I  tell  you,  that  boy,  when  I 
talked  to  him,  expressed  a  feeling  of  brotherhood,  of 
passion  for  the  downtrodden,  of  selflessness.  .  .  ." 

Dane,  recollecting  the  cool  way  Michael  had  ac- 
cepted the  sacrifice  of  his  mother  and  sister,  and  the 
frank  desire  he  had  shown  to  trade  on  Dane's  friend- 
ship for  Elsa,  remembered  also  that  Miss  Dabney  was 
a  little  given  to  accepting  the  expression  of  a  feeling 
as  the  actual  possession  of  it.  And  he  realized  also, 
with  dismay,  that  every  word  she  said  was  being  dis- 
counted by  the  business  brain  he  possessed,  and  the 
unconscious  estimate  he  had  made  of  Michael  from  the 
beginning — an  estimate,  nevertheless,  more  generous 
than  he  would  have  made  of  a  boy  of  his  own  clan; 
and — Elsa  was  waiting  for  the  one  gift  he  had  ever 
been  able  to  make  her.  And  yet — if  college  would 
make  Michael  more  the  man  he  should  be.  ... 

Uncle  Andrew  was  speaking  again,  one  tremulous 
old  hand  pulling  at  his  little  pointed  gray  beard. 

"A  desire  for  a  college  education  is  laudable.  But 
our  national  passion  for  education  blinds  our  romantic 
eyes  to  the  fact  that  all  kinds  of  education  are  not 
suited  to  all  kinds  of  people.  My  personal  knowledge 
of  this  boy  does  not  lead  me  to  think  that  he  is  a  suit- 
able subject  for  matriculation  at  Dorrance." 

There  was  an  outcry.  Dane  found  that  he  had  un- 
derestimated the  chivalry  of  the  board  toward  Michael 
and  his  kind.  Miss  Dabney's  shrill  voice  pierced 
through  the  confusion — 


160  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

"Wonderful  scholarship  .  .  .  wonderful  feeling  for 
» 

•     •     * 

Then  the  voice  of  the  President  of  the  board,  un- 
moved, weighty: 

"You  would  not  make  such  a  drastic  statement 
as  that  without  reasons,  I  know,  Dr.  Blanton.  Won't 
you  give  them  to  the  Board?" 

"They  will  sound,  perhaps,  a  little  odd,  perhaps," 
said  Uncle  Andrew  half -apologetically.  "Frank  judg- 
ments on  the  sins  of  one's  fellows  do  somehow,  now- 
adays. But  it  is  possible  to  be  intemperately  toler- 
ant; and  very  hurtful.  The  boy  in  question,  to  my 
knowledge,  is  capable  of  lying,  bullying,  financial  de- 
ception in  a  small  way,  he  possesses  neither  honesty, 
self-respect,  self-control  nor  courtesy.  I  do  not  think 
we  should  let  the  fact  that  he  is  of  the  immigrant  class, 
through  a  fear  of  being  unfair  to  him,  make  us  unfair 
to  ourselves  and — our  country." 

Miss  Dabney  frankly  considered  Dr.  Blanton  out- 
of-date,  and  the  fact  of  his  negligibility  was  peeping 
out  of  her  manner  as  she  answered. 

"We've  only  your  word  for  it,  Dr.  Blanton;  and 
things  are  looked  at  differently  nowadays.  I  don't 
think  anybody  else  here  knows  of  any  of  these — these 
cruel  charges  to  make  against  a  friendless  immigrant 
boy." 

("The  female  of  the  species,"  said  Grannis,  the 
member  next  Dane,  in  a  low  voice.  "That's  what 
comes  of  women  on  boards — always  going  off  their 
heads  on  personalities.") 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  161 

"I  think,"  Dr.  Blanton  answered  her  quietly,  "that 
others  here  may  have." 

.  .  .  Elsa.  If  he  was  honest,  if  he  backed  up  Uncle 
Andrew  and  spoke  against  the  admission  of  this  boy 
— and  after  all,  what  difference  did  the  admission  or 
barring  out  of  one  boy  make? — he  would  have  to  tell 
Elsa.  And  Elsa  was  more  to  him  than  anything  on 
heaven  or  earth.  .  .  .  Elsa,  who — he  knew  her — had 
meant  what  she  said  about  giving  him  up  forever. 

More  than  anything — but  the  hands  of  the  men 
and  women  of  his  race  behind  him  were  on  his  shoul- 
der again.  Not  more  than  his  conscience  .  .  .  not 
more  than  his  country,  to  whom  a  man  like  this,  with 
the  weapon  of  Dorrance's  stamp  and  of  being  a  col- 
lege graduate,  would  be  an  enemy.  With  all  the  im- 
portance he  knew  himself  to  have  on  the  Board,  all 
the  influence  he  knew  he  had  because  of  what  he  was 
and  what  he  stood  for,  he  spoke  as  decisively  as  Dr. 
Blanton  had. 

"Yes,  Miss  Dabney,  I  have.  I  have  seen  and  known 
enough  of  him  to  feel  as  Dr.  Blanton  feels,  that  in 
spite  of  his  brilliant  scholarship  Michael  Polokoff  is 
absolutely  undesirable,  and  for  the  reasons  he  gives." 

"Would  you  say  the  same  if  he  were  a  Lee  Tolliver?" 
demanded  Miss  Dabney  fiercely. 

"I  would  say  the  same,"  said  Dane  steadily,  "if  he 
were  my  own  brother." 

The  next  thing  that  happened  at  that  meeting  had, 
perhaps,  never  happened  at  a  meeting  of  the  staid 
and  honorable  Board  of  Governors  of  Dorrance  Uni- 


162  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

versity  before.  The  door  of  the  little  study  next  the 
room  where  the  meeting  was  going  on  was  dashed 
open,  and  Michael  strode  melodramatically  into  the 
room.  He  was  livid  and  panting  with  the  swift,  wild 
anger  of  uncontrolled  peoples.  By  Miss  Dabney's 
stricken  face  Dane  knew  electrically  that  she  had  been 
persuaded  to  bring  him  or  let  him  come  in  some  way, 
but  had  not  realized  that  he  would  listen  or  enter. 
His  thick,  wet-looking  black  hair  was  tossed  about 
his  furious  face,  and  he  was  nearly  hysterical.  He 
must  have  heard  the  whole  thing.  Indeed,  he  stated 
as  much. 

"I  have  heard  you  all!"  he  shouted  to  the  group 
of  silent  men.  "I  have  heard  you  listen  to  these  two 
aristocrats,  these  men  who  hate  and  despise  and  perse- 
cute me  because  I  have  not  had  their  opportunity; 
who  would  keep  opportunity  that  I  have  toiled  for 
from  me.  .  .  ." 

Well,  it  was  soapbox  oratory,  from  one  standpoint. 
From  another  it  was  very  moving.  He  demanded  fair 
play,  he  spoke  of  the  spirit  of  noblesse  oblige  being 
lacking,  he  demanded  public  spirit  and  the  gift  of 
equality  from  them.  He  told  in  detail  intimate  inci- 
dents of  his  own  life  and  his  family's,  showing  how 
poor  they  were  and  had  been,  and  how  hard  they 
worked.  He  spared  the  Board  not  one  private  horror 
or  personal  emotion.  Miss  Dabney  sat  with  a  moved 
face.  Mr.  Grannis,  whose  house  the  Board  Meeting 
was  held  in,  still  looked  as  annoyed  as  any  man  would 
be  likely  to  under  the  circumstances.  The  rest  of  the 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  163 

Board  listened  quietly — more  quietly  than  Michael 
had  expected,  for  finally  he  ran  down,  finishing  rather 
lamely,  and  dropping  into  his  note  of  what  Uncle 
Andrew  had  called  "rug-selling"  again.  That  is,  he 
whined. 

There  was  silence  when  he  had  finished  at  last.  He 
cast  one  glance  at  himself  in  the  Grannis'  long  old- 
fashioned  pier-glass,  a  wild  and,  from  a  distance,  pic- 
turesque young  figure  gesturing  in  the  midst  of  the 
silent  Americans.  Then  he  folded  his  arms  and  leaned 
against  the  door,  shivering  a  little  with  fatigue. 

Then  the  President  of  the  Board — it  was  Mr.  Gran- 
nis — spoke. 

"Dr.  Blanton,  I  wonder  if  you  would  mind  making 
things  clear  to  this  young  man  from  your  viewpoint." 

Uncle  Andrew  rose  stiffly,  and  bowed  punctiliously 
to  him.  "With  pleasure,  sir;  though  I  fear  I  cannot 
make  anything  clear.  Truth  is  in  the  ear  of  the  be- 
holder. But  I  will  explain  my  viewpoint  to  him." 
He  turned  abruptly — more  abruptly  than  such  an  old 
man  could  have  turned,  you  would  have  thought,  and 
addressed  the  boy,  leaning  sulkily  against  the  door 
with  folded  arms. 

"I  am  going,"  said  he,  "to  speak  to  you  just  as 
rudely  as  you  have  spoken  to  us.  ...  You  demand 
fair  play,  noblesse  oblige,  public  spirit,  of  us,  Michael. 
You  don't  have  any  idea  that  you  should  give  it  back. 
Your  idea  of  fair  play  is,  apparently,  getting  all  you 
can  for  yourself,  and  at  best  a  close  corporation  of 
your  relatives,  and  taking  advantage  of  our  American 


1 64  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

sensitiveness  and  feelings  that  we  owe  you  everything 
because  we  are  better  off  than  you,  to  force  us  to  the 
wall.  You  say  we  owe  you  an  education  if  you  can 
pay  for  it — we  have  a  right  to  ask  you  what  you  are 
going  to  do  with  it.  If  you  whined  and  lied  your  way 
into  this  scholarship  you  are  going  to  go  on  whining 
and  lying  your  way  through  the  world,  with  the  help 
of  our  good  name.  We  have  the  right  to  demand  of 
you  a  decent  outlook  on  the  world,  and  decent  treat- 
ment of  the  world.  You  have  proved  to  the  satisfac- 
tion, I  should  think,  of  every  one  present,  that  you 
will  never  get  it.  If  you  would  listen  at  a  door  to- 
night, you  would  do  as  tricky  a  thing  six  years  from 
now,  when  you're  a  professional  man,  by  grace  of 
Dorrance.  You  have  brains,  but  you  have  no  genuine 
ideals,  and  I  should  not  say  that  you  had  very  many 
principles.  This  country  needs  men  in  power  who 
are  right-minded;  with  your  brains  and  persistence 
you  will  go  far.  I  think  you  will  go  in  the  wrong 
direction;  and  so  far  as  I  can  help  it  you  shall  not 
go,  backed  by  Dorrance." 

Michael  had  with  difficulty  kept  still  during  all  this. 
He  flung  out  his  arms  now  with  what  promised  to  be 
another  wild  appeal;  but  Mr.  Grannis  spoke. 

"So  far  as  I  am  concerned  the  fact  that  you  eaves- 
dropped settles  your  eligibility  with  me,  if  you  had 
passed  with  the  highest  marks  the  university  ever 
gave.  Of  course,  I  cannot  say  how  the  rest  of  these 
gentlemen  will  vote.  I  must  ask  you  to  withdraw,  now, 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  165 

Mr.  Polokoff.  We  have  been  guilty  of  an  irregularity 
in  letting  you  be  present  so  long,  as  it  is." 

The  boy  went  out,  curiously  enough,  at  the  tone  of 
command,  as  a  small  child  would  have  done. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  Elsa!"  was  his  last  word  to 
Dane.  The  words  were  childish,  but  tone  and  ex- 
pression were  not. 

The  chairman  spoke. 

"What  is  your  pleasure  on  the  admission  of  Michael 
Polokoff,  gentlemen?" 

"It  may  stir  up  trouble  with  the  foreign  element," 
said  one  of  the  members  who  was  a  politician,  an- 
xiously. But  nobody  paid  attention  to  him.  Except 
for  Miss  Dabney,  the  vote  against  Michael  was  unani- 
mous. 

Dane  made  his  way  straight  to  Elsa  that  night.  It 
was  not  his  way  to  avoid  issues.  He  had  gone  with 
his  conscience;  he  had  spoken  against  Michael;  he 
had  lost  Elsa,  who  was  more  to  him  than  anything 
on  earth.  But — there  was  a  fighting  chance  of  Elsa 
still,  and  he  was  going  to  take  it. 

He  had  half  feared  that  the  door  would  be  locked 
against  him,  but  Elsa  rose  to  greet  him  from  the  little 
inner  room.  She  was  very  white. 

He  could  not  make  out  her  mood.  .  .  .  Her  little 
loving  face  that  was  so  dear  to  him  was  like  a  mask. 
She  was  firm  in  some  resolve;  he  could  not  tell  what. 

"Michael  has  told  me,"  she  said  first.  "The  old 
clergyman  brought  him  home.  He  was  so  angry  he 


166  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

was  sick."  Dane  braced  himself  for  the  inevitable 
rest.  But  instead,  all  at  once  she  flung  her  arms  on 
the  red-covered  table,  dropped  her  brown  head  on 
them  and  began  to  cry,  softly  and  heartbrokenly.  "I 
am  so  ashamed!  I  am  so  ashamed!"  were  the  incred- 
ible words  she  said. 

"Of  what,  darling?"  he  said,  putting  his  arm  around 
her  shaking  shoulders. 

She  did  not  push  him  away,  which  gave  him  heart. 

"Of  Michael;  and  of  me,  for  never  showing  him 
how  to  be  a  good  citizen.  I  was  older,  I  should.  He 
told  me  ...  all  the  things  he  did,  and  the  things 
they  said.  And  the  old  clergyman  ...  he  explained 
to  me.  He  was  .  .  .  like  you.  .  .  .  Dane,  oh,  Dane, 
I  can't  marry  you.  Not  because  you  didn't  make  them 
take  Michael;  but  because  I  couldn't  see  why  they 
shouldn't — why  he  wasn't  all  right — and  you  could. 
.  .  .  We'd  never  fit  ...  we'd  never  be  happy.  .  .  . 
Michael."  Womanlike  she  began  to  defend  the 
brother  she  had  been  condemning,  classing  herself  with 
him  in  her  fury  of  pity.  "When  did  it  ever  pay  us 
to  be  good,  to  practise  noblesse  oblige — to  be  fairer 
than  the  other  person — over  there?  We've  never  had 
a  chance  at  honor!  It — it  takes  strong  people  to  be 
honorable  when  the  odds  are  against  them,  and  noble- 
ness means  losing  your  only  little,  least  chance  to  sur- 
vive and  breathe!  Michael's  people — never  had  a 
chance  at  honor.  .  .  .  Mine — my  father — was  differ- 
ent— not  crushed  down  so.  You — you  can't  under- 
stand. We  haven't  courage  yet  to  do  anything  but 


"NOBLESSE  OBLIGE"  167 

snatch  at  all  the  advantages,  fair  or  unfair.  We're 
afraid  to  yield  a  foot  of  advantage — afraid  to  have 
self-respect.  Over  there  if  we  did  we — went  down." 

"My  beloved,"  Dane  spoke  huskily,  "don't  you  see 
how  wonderful  you  are,  to  be  able  to  say  all  this — " 

"I  am  not  wonderful.  I  am  a  woman  who  has 
fought  for  years,  and  fought  under  a  wrong  banner. 
And  I  should  not  know  it  or  see  it  now  if  I  did  not 
love  you  so  much  more  than  anything  on  earth  that 
I  am  swept  toward  seeing  things  your  way.  How  do 
I  even  know  I  am  right  now?  .  .  .  But  I  do  know — 
I  can  not  marry  you,  with  a  brother  you  would 
always  despise,  and  I — oh,  my  heart — I  must  be 
ashamed  of  him  too." 

"But  darling,  we  can  help  him — we  can  teach  him, 
maybe — " 

"I  can,  perhaps:  not  if  I  marry  you.  .  .  .  Michael 
wanted  me  to  use  my  influence  with  the  people  here, 
to  make  dreadful  trouble  because  of  him,  because 
they  love  me  and  are  proud  of  me.  And — I  will  tell 
you  the  truth — for  a  little  I  was  angry  and  wanted  to. 
And  then  what  the  old  man  said,  and  you,  came  back 
over  me  like  a  flood,  and  I  could  not.  .  .  .  Oh,  what 
are  right  and  wrong  for  a  woman?  Just  loving  one 
man  or  another  man?  ...  I  am  not  sure  of  myself 
yet.  .  .  .  Oh,  Dane,  I  love  you  so  I  would  die  for 
you.  .  .  ." 

He  had  her  tight  in  his  arms  now,  kissing  the  little 
wet  face  passionately.  "You  aren't  to  die  for  me — 
you're  to  marry  me,  now,  this  week,  my  own  Elsa." 


168  "NOBLESSE  OBLIGE" 

She  lay  in  his  arms  for  a  moment,  clinging 
close.  .  .  .  "It  would  be  good  to  be  with  you — so 
good!  ...  I  did  not  know  I  could  love  anything  as 
I  love  you — " 

"Then  marry  me — now.  There's  nothing  else  on 
earth  matters — " 

She  drew  herself  from  him  resolutely. 

"No.  Perhaps  some  time — if  I  can  show  Michael 
the  things  that  count,  if  I  can  help  my  people.  Have 
patience,  my  dearest  one.  ...  I  can  teach  them  what 
loving  you  has  taught  me,  maybe  ...  oh,  I  am  strong 
now,  loving  you 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

THE  two  men  stood  outside  a  bedroom  door,  one  with 
his  hand  on  the  other's  arm,  in  an  unconsciously  sharp 
clutch  of  anxiety. 

"It's  bad,  Dr.  Blanton,  or  Jessie  wouldn't  have  sent 
for  you  to  tell  me,"  he  said.  "Won't  she  live?" 

The  old  clergyman  smiled. 

"She  is  not  in  any  danger.  You,  as  a  doctor,  should 
know  what  the  other  doctors  have  told  us — Eileen  was 
out  of  danger  weeks  ago." 

"I  was  afraid — a  sudden  relapse — "  said  the  other, 
with  a  look  of  haggard  terror.  It  was  his  wife,  whom 
he  loved  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  Then 
his  face  lighted.  "If  she's  better  I  can  go  in." 

Dr.  Blanton  held  him  back. 

"They  think  not.  I  know  you  should  not  till  I've 
told  you." 

"For  heaven's  sake  tell  me,  then!" 

"She's  not  delirious  any  longer.  She  will  be  able 
to  be  up,  as  well  as  ever,  in  a  few  days.  That's  the 
good  news.  .  .  ." 

"But  the  bad?    For  heaven's  sake,  Uncle  Andrew — " 

"She  doesn't  remember.    She's  gone  back.  .  .  ." 

"All  the  more  reason,"  said  her  husband  resolutely, 
"that  I  should  go  in  and  see  her." 

"I  wouldn't—" 

169 


170  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

He  opened  the  bedroom  door.  .  .  . 


Eileen  had  been  lying  in  bed  when  she  came  to  her 
senses.  It  was  late  afternoon,  and  the  sun  fell  in  a 
long  bar  across  her  bed  and  tinged  one  of  the  two 
thick  plaits  of  red-brown  hair  that  lay  on  the  coverlet. 
She  thought  lazily  that  the  plaits  looked  much  longer 
lying  there  than  when  she  had  braided  them  the  night 
before.  Then  she  thought  in  the  same  dreamy  fashion 
fnat  the  room  was  unfamiliar.  But  her  eyes  were 
tired,  and  often  a  room  looks  strange  when  you're  not 
fully  awake.  She  gazed  about  her — it  was  a  strange 
room,  for  this  was  a  double  bed  in  which  she  now  lay 
in  solitary  state,  and  her  own  was  so  small.  An  un- 
expected figure  caught  her  eye. 

"Jessie  must  have  been  worried  about  me!"  she 
thought,  for  a  professional  nurse  sat  near-by.  Eileen 
saw  that  the  nurse  was  looking  at  her. 

"I'm  all  right  now,  I  think,"  she  said  pleasantly. 
"Is  it — is  it  too  late  for  me  to  get  up  and  be  married?" 
Her  face  flushed  as  she  spoke,  and  she  laughed  shyly. 
She  felt  quite  well,  though  tired  as  she  was,  she  dreaded 
a  little  the  ordeal  of  the  marriage  ceremony.  And 
last  night  seemed  so  dim  and  far  away.  Perhaps  her 
sleep  had  been  troubled  with  dreams,  for  even  the 
plans  for  the  wedding  were  hard  to  remember. 

"It's  all  right,"  answered  the  nurse  hastily;  "you 
don't  need  to  get  up — you — you  have  plenty  of  time. 
You  had  better  go  to  sleep  again." 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  171 

Eileen  laughed  and  sat  up  against  the  pillows,  rub- 
bing her  eyes  with  a  child-like  gesture. 

"But,  my  dear  nurse,  I'm  not  sleepy,"  she  expostu- 
lated, "and  I  want  to  know  about  a  lot  of  things. 
To  begin  with,  why  did  my  sister  have  me  sent  here? 
Please  tell  me — where  am  I,  and  how  long  have  I 
been  unconscious,  and" — Eileen  hesitated — "what 
about  Mr.  Hardy?  My  sister  told  you,  didn't  she? 
We  were  to  be  married  to-day," — for  the  first  time 
her  face  showed  alarm — "is  it  still  to-day?" 

The  nurse  answered  hurriedly,  with  a  little  catch 
in  her  voice,  "Yes,"  and  mumbling  an  excuse  left  the 
room.  Eileen's  troubled  eyes  wandered  to  the  soft, 
close-drawn  curtains  and  the  big  mirrors.  But  she  felt 
too  weak  and  tired  to  care  much  about  anything.  Even 
Victor  seemed  a  dim  and  distant  figure.  Victor — he 
had  such  quick,  emphatic  gestures — hadn't  he? — and 
brown  eyes,  and  after  all  a  comforting  calm  when  you 
least  expected  it.  Yes;  that  was  Victor. 

Presently  as  she  brushed  back  the  tendrils  of  hair 
which  had  fallen  over  her  forehead,  she  saw  something 
on  her  left  hand  that  made  her  gasp  in  astonishment. 
On  her  third  finger  shone  a  wedding-ring.  Evidently 
she  had  been  unconscious  longer  than  she  thought. 
And  Victor  had  actually  done  that  which  one  some- 
times reads  of  in  papers — married  her  while  in  a  des- 
perate illness — so  that  if  she  died  she  would  at  least 
be  his  in  death. 

So  that  was  off  her  mind!  And  with  a  contented 
smile  she  sank  again  into  the  pillows. 


172  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

Her  sister  Jessie  was  at  the  bedside  when  Eileen 
awoke.  Jessie's  round  face  was  the  only  familiar  thing 
in  all  this  strangeness. 

"Tell  me  the  whole  thing,  Jess,"  she  demanded.  "I 
must  have  lost  several  weeks  since  'last  night'." 

"Eileen — "  stammered  Jessie,  and  Eileen,  her  little 
hand  seeking  that  of  her  sister,  laughed. 

"If  you're  responsible  for  my  being  married  to 
Victor  while  I  couldn't  object,  I  forgive  you." 

"I  suppose  I'm  the  one  to  tell  you,"  Jessie  said,  in 
a  choked  voice,  "but  I  don't  know  where  to  begin." 

"At  the  beginning,  naturally,"  Eileen  answered  with 
a  little  laugh.  "How  long  have  I  been  ill?" 

"Five  weeks  this  time.  Oh,  Eileen,  don't  laugh!" 
Jessie  whispered  as  if  some  one  were  dead. 

Eileen  felt  a  cold  shiver  of  fear  creeping  over  her. 

"This  time?"  she  repeated. 

Jessie  began  to  cry  softly,  and  did  not  answer  until 
Eileen  repeated  the  question. 

"It's  eight  years ! "  said  Jessie,  between  sobs.  "Eight 
years!  You — you're  twenty-six,  Eileen." 

Eileen  sat  up  and  clutched  the  ribbons  at  her  throat. 

"Eight  years!"  she  repeated  incredulously.  "It 
isn't  true — it  isn't!  Give  me  a  hand-glass." 

Eileen  snatched  the  mirror  from  Jessie's  hand  and 
stared  at  herself.  What  she  saw  was  nearer  the  girl 
of  eighteen  than  she  had  dared  to  hope.  Thinner,  per- 
haps, and  the  plaits  longer,  but  still  the  same  rich  red- 
brown.  Except  for  a  ghastly  pallor  she  could  detect 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  173 

no  difference  in  feature  or  coloring.  The  only  change 
she  could  define  was  in  the  expression.  This  face 
looked  as  if  it  knew.  In  so  far  as  she  could  see,  she 
was  just  the  Eileen  Arden  who  had  danced  and 
laughed  and  wondered  the  night  before  her  wedding. 

Eileen  laid  down  the  glass  with  a  shudder. 

"I  have  heard  that  such  things  happened,"  she  could 
hear  herself  saying  with  singular  composure,  "but  I 
didn't  think  they  happened  to  people  one  knows,  let 
alone — yourself.  Jessie,  where's  Victor?  Tell  him 
I'm  not  angry;  he  was  afraid  I  would  be,  wasn't  he?" 

She  stopped  short,  for  poor  trembling  Jessie  had 
dropped  to  her  knees  beside  the  bed.  Eileen  noticed 
there  were  gray  threads  in  her  sister's  pretty  dark 
hair.  Of  course,  eight  years — 

"How  shall  I  tell  you?"  Jessie  managed  to  utter 
brokenly. 

"Is  he  dead?"  Eileen  demanded  hoarsely.  "Oh, 
Jess,  tell  me,  tell  me  everything!  I'll  go  mad  if  you 
don't." 

Jessie  tried  to  compose  herself.  She  had  been 
mother  as  well  as  sister  to  Eileen  for  many  years, 
and  what  was  asked  of  her  she  endeavored  to  do,  if 
it  were  humanly  possible. 

"Eileen,  dear,  you  remember  dancing  with  Victor 
the  night  before  you  were  to  have  married  him  and 
suddenly  losing  your  balance?  You  remember  strik- 
ing your  head  against  the  sharp  corner  of  the  musi- 
cians' platform?" 


174  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

"Yes,  yes!"  cried  Eileen  impatiently,  "but  that's  all 
I  do  remember,  and  it's  vague  and  misty.  Have  I 
been  asleep  eight  years?  That  couldn't  happen!" 

"No,"  faltered  Jessie,  "that  didn't  happen.  But 
when  you  regained  consciousness,  dear,  you — you 
went  back." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Eileen  questioned  impati- 
ently. Was  she  the  victim  of  some  dreadful  brain 
disease,  she  wondered.  Oh,  if  Jessie  would  only  tell 
her  all  that  had  taken  place  during  those  blank  years! 

Jessie  looked  at  her  sister  with  pitying  eyes. 

"You  went  back"  she  repeated.  "You  thought  you 
were  a  little  girl  again.  Everything  that  had  occurred 
in  the  interval  between  twelve  and  eighteen  was  oblit- 
erated." 

It  sounded  to  Eileen  like  sheer  delirium,  and  she 
stared  at  her  sister  blankly. 

"You've  heard  of  such  things,  haven't  you?"  Jessie 
asked.  "Oh,  it  was  terrible!  Yours  was  a  famous 
case;  and  doctors  came  from  all  over  the  world  to  see 
you.  Though  I  hated  them  for  watching  you  and 
publishing  their  theories,  I  didn't  dare  to  send  any 
of  them  away,  for  fear  that  he  might  be  the  very 
one  to  cure  you.  Oh,  Eileen,  can't  you  remember  one 
single  thing? — not  even  dear  old  Dr.  Blanton,  the 
clergyman  you  liked  so  much,  or  Alistair  Gray?" 

"No !"  said  Eileen  despairingly.  "No,  no,  no!  You 
must  tell  me,  Jessie.  Don't  you  see  that  you  must? — 
everything!" 

"I  am  trying,"  said  Jessie  gently,  "but  I  can't  do  it 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  175 

all  at  once.  When  you  first  recovered  from  the  acci- 
3ent  we  thought  you  were  pretending  to  forget,  but 
you  were  so  upset  and  suffered  so  much  when  we 
doubted  you  that  we  soon  knew  you  were  not.  Oh, 
dear,  it  was  heart-breaking!  You  asked  for — mother." 

The  mother  who  had  died  when  Eileen  was  fifteen! 

"And  I  went  through  all  that  sorrow  again?"  Eileen 
cried,  "Oh,  poor  little  girl!  Jessie,  how  could  God — " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jessie  dully.  "I  don't  know. 
But,  dear,  can't  you  guess  what  else  was  blotted  out 
from  your  mind?  You  had  only  known  Victor  a 
year — " 

Eileen  sprang  up  again,  her  little  figure  shaking. 

"I  forget  Victor?"  she  cried  passionately.  "Jessie, 
I  couldn't—/  couldn't!" 

"Yes,  you  forgot  Victor,"  said  her  sister,  in  a  shak- 
ing voice. 

But  there  was  the  ring  on  her  hand,  and  Eileen  con- 
soled herself.  Even  if  she  had  lost  eight  years  of 
her  life,  all  the  rest  were  intact;  and  after  all  twenty- 
six  years  wasn't  so  old  for  a  married  woman.  Sup- 
pose she  had  forgotten  him,  and  he  had  had  to  win 
Eis  suit  all  over  again — why,  Jessie  needn't  look  so 
tragic  about  it! 

"You  forgot  him,"  Jessie  repeated.  "You  didn't 
even  like  him.  And  you  wanted  your  dolls  and  a  skip- 
ping rope,  and  thought  you  were  in  school  again.  You 
were  happy,  except  when  the  doctors  worried  you — 
that  was  my  only  comfort." 

"Well,"  said  Eileen,  "go  on." 


176  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

"I  gave  in  to  you  finally,"  Jessie  continued,  "and 
moved  away  from  the  place  where  we  lived.  I  dressed 
you  like  a  child,  and  let  you  grow  up  again.  It  was 
a  blessing  you  were  so  little  and  childish-looking. 
People  never  suspected  that  you  were  not  a  girl  of 
twelve — nobody,  that  is,  but  Dr.  Blanton  and  Alistair. 
They  said  that  you  would  go  on  developing  and  grow 
up  all  over  again,  and  so  it  proved.  Some  day,  they 
believed,  your  mind  would  catch  up  with  itself,  and 
you  would  remember  everything.  But  to  come  back  this 
way — with  everything  for  the  last  eight  years  forgot- 
ten— oh,  I  wish  you  remembered!  Try,  dear,  they 
said  that  you  would." 

"I  can't  now,"  said  Eileen,  "but  I  may  if  you  tell 
me  more.  Can't  I  see  Victor?" 

"You  hated  Victor,"  Jessie  went  on.  "They  thought 
it  was  because  you  subconsciously  disliked  him  for 
having  been  the  cause  of  your  fall." 

Poor  Victor!  She  could  remember  her  lover's  eyes. 
Poor  Victor! — but  how  ridiculous,  when  he  had  been 
her  husband  all  this  time! 

"So  finally  he  gave  you  up." 

Eileen  for  a  second  felt  her  senses  slipping. 

"Am  I  not  married  to  Victor?"  she  demanded. 

"No,"  said  Jessie,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Then—then—who?" 

"Alistair  Gray." 

Eileen  did  not  faint  or  cry  out.  Her  brain  held 
steady,  and  she  wondered  vaguely  that  it  should — the 
brain  that  had  betrayed  her.  She  looked  at  Jessie, 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  177 

i 
now  thoroughly  frightened — poor,  loving  Jessie  who 

had  done  her  best. 

"I've  broken  it  to  you  all  wrong!"  she  cried  pite- 
ously.  "Oh,  Eileen,  speak;  say  something!" 

"You've  broken — everything,"  said  Eileen  slowly. 
Then  the  power  of  thought  came  back  and  she  began 
to  talk  breathlessly.  "Oh,  Victor,  Victor!  I  love 
him — and  I'll  never  love  any  one  else!  And  you  let 
me  be  tied  to  this  other  man.  I  can't  even  remember 
him!  And  he's  had  me  all  these  years  when  I  wasn't 
myself.  Perhaps  he's  thought — Jessie,  has  he  thought 
— "  she  hesitated,  then  finished  weakly,  "that  I  liked 
him?" 

"You  love  Alistair  very  much,"  said  Jessie  steadily. 
"It's  only  that  you  don't  remember.  You  see,  dear, 
you  have  awakened  before  you  were  eighteen  again." 

What  did  Eileen  care  for  problems  in  arrested 
mental  development!  She  went  straight  to  the  thing 
that  concerned  her  most. 

"Love  Alistair!  Love  a  man  who  would  marry 
another  man's  sweetheart  when  she  was  insane?  You 
are  absurd.  Did  you  say  he  was  a  doctor?  He 
couldn't  have  been  a  very  good  one." 

"A  famous  one,"  asserted  Jessie.  "Eileen,  you 
surely  recollect.  Don't  you  remember  how  he  loved 
you,  and  how  you  feared  that  you'd  recall  having  cared 
for  another  man?  You  said  that  to  me  several  times 
before — well,  not  five  weeks  ago." 

Eileen  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  it's  hideous!"  she  gasped.    "I — I  wish  I  could 


iy8  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

kill  myself!  Perhaps,  after  all,  that  is  the  best  way 
out.  Oh,  my  poor  Victor!" 

A  man's  face  floated  before  her  eyes  as  she  spoke, 
familiar  and  loving;  she  could  hear  him  saying:  "My 
own  dear  little  wife ! " 

Her  sister's  voice,  protesting,  aroused  her.  "I'll 
tell  you  something  else,"  she  was  saying.  "Victor 
doesn't  need  your  pity.  He  married  two  years  before 
you  did,  and  his  wife's  only  been  dead  a  year." 

"When  did  I  marry?"  Eileen  asked  finally,  "or 
rather,  when  did  you  let  that  poor,  insane  child  marry 
this  creature,  Alistair  Gray?" 

"When  you  thought  you  were  sixteen,"  Jessie 
answered,  "though  you  were  really  twenty-two." 

Eight  years — how  awful!  and  that  waltz  of  last 
night  still  throbbing  in  her  brain!  She  could  hear  the 
violins: 

"Your  dream-love, 
Wait  for  her; 
She'll— be—  true—  " 

And  Victor,  Victor! — whose  warm  hands  and  vivid 
eyes  were  as  real  as  if  he  were  actually  by  her  side. 
Victor  had  not  waited!  And  now,  by  a  turn  of  the 
wheel,  Victor  was  free  again,  and  she —  It  was 
detestable,  but  one  thing  stood  out  as  the  essence  of 
dreadfulness — her  marriage  to  the  unknown  Alistair 
Gray.  She  could  not  hate  Victor  or  Jessie,  because 
she  loved  them;  she  could  only  feel  cruelly  hurt. 
But  Alistair  Gray  she  hated. 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  179 

"Alistair — "  Jessie  began  again  timidly. 

"I  won't  see  him,"  Eileen  cried  out  wildly.  "I  will 
drown  myself!  I  will  not — " 

"Dr.  Gray  wants  to  know  if  Mrs.  Gray  can  see  him. 
Dr.  Blanton  is  here,  too,  Miss  Arden,"  said  a  maid's 
voice  in  a  whisper  at  the  door  of  the  chamber.  But 
Eileen's  sharpened  senses  could  have  heard  the  words 
miles  away. 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  screamed,  losing  the  last  remnant 
of  her  self-control.  But  it  was  too  late. 

The  door  opened,  and  there  stood  a  man  on  the 
threshold.  His  face  was  dimly  familiar,  yet  no  feeling 
of  affection  stirred  in  her  heart,  only  a  vague  friendli- 
ness at  most;  then  even  that  was  swamped  by  the 
surge  of  hate  she  felt  for  Alistair  Gray.  She  only 
caught  a  sight  of  the  figure,  then  hid  her  eyes  in  her 
hands.  The  outline  of  another  man's  figure  might 
have  been  seen  in  the  hall — the  other  doctor,  doubtless, 
— but  Eileen  was  so  obsessed  by  the  horror  of  meeting 
her  unknown  husband  that  she  did  not  notice.  The 
scream  that  rose  to  her  lips  was  never  uttered,  for 
everything  went  black  again  and  she  fainted. 

When  she  came  to  herself  Jessie  was  by  her  side, 
but  the  others  had  gone.  Eileen  did  not  speak  at 
once;  there  seemed  to  be  such  a  lot  of  thinking  to  be 
done  that  she  lay  perfectly  still.  Her  mind  was  quite 
clear  now.  She  had  been  brought  up  to  consider  duty 
paramount  and — she  was  married  to  Alistair  Grayl 
Ought  she — could  she — 

When  she  spoke  to  Jessie,  it  was  in  a  firm,  cold  voice. 


i8o  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

"I'm  well  enough  to  dress,"  she  said,  "please  help 
me.  You  needn't  tell  me  about  any  of  the  things  that 
you  were  planning  to  do,  for  it  will  do  no  good.  If  I'm 
given  time,  I  may  forgive  the  man;  but  I  won't  stay  in 
the  same  house  with  him.  You  allowed  me  to  get  into 
this  horrible  situation;  now  you  must  help  me  out. 
Tell  that  Alistair  Gray  you  tied  me  to  that  I  absolutely 
refuse  to  see  him  or  stay  here.  Tell  him  to  send  me 
away  where  I  can  be  alone.  Tell  him  that  if  I  stay 
away  long  enough  I  may  go  mad  again  and  remember 
him.  That  should  have  the  proper  effect! " 

"You  were  never  mad,"  Jessie  began  helplessly;  "it 
was  only — " 

"Whatever  it  was,"  Eileen  cut  her  short  fiercely, 
"help  me  to  get  away  from  this  house." 

She  sprang  from  the  bed  and  stood  holding  a  chair,  a 
pitiful  childish  figure  with  her  long  plaits  and  staring 
eyes. 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  Eileen;  I'll  do  everything  you  wish!" 
cried  Jessie,  putting  her  arms  around  the  "little  sister" 
who  was  still  to  be  protected  and  humored  and  petted. 
"Only  get  back  into  bed.  I'll  go  and  arrange  things 
the  best  I  can  with  Alistair." 

Eileen,  not  unwillingly,  did  as  she  was  bidden,  for 
her  first  wave  of  anger,  spent,  physical  weakness 
threatened  to  overcome  her.  After  what  seemed  years 
of  waiting,  Jessie  returned. 

"Alistair  is  willing  you  should  go,"  she  said.  Some- 
how Eileen  hated  him  the  more  for  it.  "He  gave  me  a 
message  for  you,"  Jessie  went  on  quickly.  "He  said: 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  181 

'Tell  her  I'll  wait  for  her  as  long  as  she  likes — forever — 
I  am  the  one  jor  whom  she  cares,  although  she  may  not 
remember  me  now.  I'll  wait  for  her — and  in  the  end 
she'll  want  me  again." 

Eileen  let  Jessie  help  her  on  with  clothes  she  had 
never  before  seen,  of  a  fashion  she  did  not  know,  but 
finer  and  more  beautiful  than  any  she  remembered. 
They  were  clothes  that  belonged  to  the  other  Eileen — 
Eileen  Gray,  Alistair  Gray's  wife — and  she  hated  the 
touch  of  them. 

Every  detail  of  the  journey  had  been  carefully 
arranged.  Automobile,  train,  carriage — and  by  night- 
fall she  was  lying  on  a  couch  in  a  fine  old  house  in  the 
country,  served  perfectly,  and  surrounded  by  luxuries 
for  which  she  had  often  wished  in  the  old  days,  but 
never  expected  to  enjoy.  Eileen  was  too  tired  to  think, 
and  took  deliberate  pleasure  in  the  strange  loveliness 
and  comfort  of  her  surroundings. 

But  next  morning,  the  tangled  strands  of  her  life  lay 
before  her.  Not  the  least  of  her  trials  was  the  sense  of 
unreality  which  pervaded  everything.  Surely  she 
would  go  to  sleep  some  night  and  wake  up  to  find  that 
she  had  dreamed  the  whole  wretched  story.  She  could 
hear  herself  telling  Victor:  "And  I  dreamed  my  hair 
was  that  much  longer,  dear,  away  down  to  my  knees  1 " 
The  lengthening  of  her  hair  and  a  flitting  expression  of 
sweet  wisdom  that  she  occasionally  surprised  in  her 
glass  were  the  only  tangible  tokens  she  had  of  the  lost 
years.  One  other  thing  troubled  her.  She  slept 
dreamlessly,  in  so  far  as  she  knew,  but  twice  she  awoke 


i8z  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

to  find  herself  smiling  and  on  the  point  of  saying: 
"Good-morning,  dearest — " 

It  was  some  little  time  before  she  realized  that  it  was 
the  other  Eileen,  that  poor  miserable  little  thing  they 
had  married  to  Alistair  Gray,  who  was  about  to  offer 
the  greeting.  She  remembered  him  in  sleep  and 
loved  him!  Eileen  felt  her  cheeks  burn, — it  was 
ghastly! 

She  wanted  to  be  faithful  to  her  husband,  but  how 
could  she  when  she  hated  him,  and  loved  and  remem- 
bered only  Victor? 

"Your  dream-love, 
Wait  for  her; 
She'll— be—  true—  » 

The  mocking  music  always  came  with  the  thought 
of  Victor's  vivid  brown  face.  She  could  not  remember 
much  that  they  had  said  or  done  in  those  days,  eight 
years  ago.  There  was  only  the  memory  of  the  face, 
and  the  overwhelming  love  that  came  with  it. 

She  took  to  walking  a  great  deal  in  the  garden,  and 
tried  to  think  and,  above  all,  to  remember.  Queer 
half -thoughts,  half -pictures  rose  in  her  mind  like 
phantoms;  a  brisk  ride  in  the  autumn  wind;  a  leaf  that 
caught  in  her  hair;  a  room  all  browns  and  golds  alight 
with  the  glow  of  a  crackling  fire,  and  a  girl  in  blue 
playing  on  the  piano;  a  man's  voice — could  that  voice 
belong  to  the  tall  figure,  the  gray  eyes  and  hair  she  had 
seen  in  the  doorway?  And  through  all  the  pictures 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  183 

was  the  agonizing  memory  of  Victor  and  their  love. 
The  thought  of  him  dominated  her  mind — Victor's 
dark  eyes,  his  slight  boyish  figure,  his  steadfastness 
and  protecting  care.  It  was  as  if  no  moment  of  those 
lost  years  had  been  without  him.  And  all  the  while 
she  was  married  to  Alistair  Gray ! 

It  was  while  she  was  in  this  mood,  one  night,  that 
Eileen  was  summoned  to  the  telephone.  A  man's 
voice  answered. 

"This  is  Alistair,  Eileen." 

Eileen  struggled  a  moment  for  words. 

"Good  evening,  Doctor  Gray,"  she  said  inadequately 
at  last. 

"ffle**/" 

Eileen  strove  to  compose  herself,  then  answered:  "If 
you  please,  I  would  rather  not  speak  to  you."  Then 
losing  her  self-control,  "Promise  you  won't  come  to 
me — promise  you'll  leave  me  alone  till  I  say.  Oh,  I 
don't  want  to  hate  you,  but — I  do,  I  do" 

"That's  enough,  Eileen,"  said  the  quiet  voice.  "Try 
to  forgive  me  if  you  can — and  remember,  I  promise. 
But  I  called  you  up  because  there  is  a  letter  for  you 
here.  Victor  Hardy,  the  man  you  were  to  marry,  has 
written  you  ...  I  am  forwarding  the  letter.  But  in 
justice  to  me,  please  do  not  receive  him  until  I  have 
seen  you.  I  have  a  most  important  reason  for  asking 
this — not  a  selfish  one.  There  are  some  things  which 
you  must  know." 

"A  letter  from  Victor?"  was  Eileen's  only  answer. 
In  spite  of  herself  her  voice  vibrated  with  joy. 


184  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Gray,  "you  will  do  what  I  ask?" 

Assenting  reluctantly,  mainly  because  she  could  not 
escape  feeling  that  her  husband  had  the  moral  right 
to  make  this  stipulation,  hate  him  as  she  might,  she 
said  good-by. 

Victor  wrote  what  was  frankly  a  love-letter.  Eileen 
— poor  Eileen! — read  it  over  and  over.  He  asked 
forgiveness,  as  Alistair  had.  Men  seemed  always 
wanting  forgiveness,  thought  Eileen.  What  was  there 
to  forgive? 

Alistair  had  guessed  correctly.  Victor  begged  to 
come  to  see  Eileen  once  more — she  was  his — she  had 
always  belonged  to  him! 

Eileen  threw  down  the  letter.  The  vision  of  Victor 
had  never  been  more  vividly  present.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  never  parted  from  him.  Every  impulse  was  a  wild 
desire  to  go  to  him — to  go  straight  to  her  lover !  After 
all,  why  should  she  keep  vows  that  the  other  Eileen 
had  made  to  Alistair  Gray?  But — she  had  prom- 
ised! The  little  figure  paced  up  and  down  the  long 
room,  thinking,  thinking.  The  soft,  satin  skirts  that 
clung  around  her,  the  very  pins  in  her  red-brown  hair, 
belonged  to  that  other  Eileen. 

She  delayed  answering  Victor's  letter,  and  tried  by 
every  device  to  divert  her  thoughts,  which  were 
becoming  unbearable.  But  the  books  she  started  to 
read  were  all  half -remembered,  and  she  could  hear 
Victor's  voice  in  every  sentence.  His  presence  echoed 
through  her  music.  And  once  she  came  across  the  old 
waltz: 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  185 

"Your  dream-love, 
Wait  for  her; 
She'll— be— true— " 

It  was  a  fresh  copy — that  other  Eileen  must  have 
known  the  song.  It  seemed  so;  yet  no  hateful  memory 
of  the  gray  eyes  and  gray  hair  of  the  half-seen  man 
arose  now  when  she  played  it.  It  reminded  Eileen 
only  of  Victor. 

In  the  morning — when  honor  seems  more  real  and 
love  less  seductive— she  wrote  to  Victor.  She  held 
herself  in  check,  saying  nothing  of  her  love;  she  told 
him  simply  he  must  not  come  to  see  her.  She  must 
have  time  to  think  and  decide.  But  she  forgave  him — 
if  there  was  anything  to  forgive.  Eileen  took  the 
letter  to  the  mail-box  at  the  gate.  It  was  not  until 
she  touched  the  lace  at  her  breast  and  found  it  wet  that 
she  realized  she  had  been  crying. 

Victor  answered  immediately.  He  would  not  come 
till  Eileen  said  that  he  might — and  he  loved  her.  That 
was  nearly  all.  He  did  not  write,  somehow,  quite  the 
way  she  expected.  The  phrases  and  his  use  of  words 
Jarred  upon  her  acute  sense  of  fitness.  But  that  is  a 
common  enough  thing.  He  loved  her!  That  atoned 
for  all. 

So  Eileen  waited  and  thought  and  agonized.  For  a 
fortnight  she  alternated  between  a  wild  desire  to  see 
Victor,  and  a  chill  feeling  that  nothing  mattered  much 
after  all;  that  dull  half-living  was  the  best  that  could 
happen  to  her.  At  least  both  men  had  given  her  the 


1 86  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

same  promise.  She  need  not  expect  either  one  until 
she  summoned  him.  Then  a  tumult  of  emotion  over- 
whelmed her  and  with  a  sob  she  made  a  prayer:  "Oh 
God,  let  him  come — only  just  once  more!  I  will  be  so 
good — I  will  be  so  fair — I  won't  let  him  kiss  me — I 
won't  even  let  him  touch  me.  I'll  be  very  cold,  very 
careful,  only  send  him,  dear  God;  please  send  him!" 

It  was  not,  however,  either  of  her  lovers  that  God — 
or  any  one — sent.  Only  an  old  man  whom  she  remem- 
bered dimly,  a  spare  old  gentleman  in  a  quaint  caped 
coat,  who  tied  a  buggy  outside — surely  no  one  used 
buggies  any  more,  even  in  this  strange  part  of  the 
country! — and  asked,  seeing  her  wandering  aimlessly 
in  the  garden,  if  he  might  come  in. 

"I  think  I  know  you,"  she  said,  feeling  as  if  she 
might  trust  him,  though  she  could  not  remember  who 
he  was. 

"I  think  you  do,"  he  said,  smiling,  and  entering. 
"I  am  your  clergyman,  Dr.  Blanton,  and  very  truly  at 
your  service,  my  dear." 

"Jessie  said — "  she  began,  and  then  stopped.  She 
did  not  want  to  commit  herself,  if  this  nice  old  gentle- 
man did  not  know  of  her  lapse  of  memory. 

"Jessie  said  I  knew  about  everything?  She  was 
quite  right,"  said  he  calmly,  cutting  the  knot  of  her 
difficulties.  "And  I  know  that  things  will  straighten 
themselves  out,  if  you  only  give  them  time." 

The  feeling  of  knowing  him  was  so  strong  that  she 
spoke  eagerly,  intimately.  After  all,  she  must  know 
him,  behind  that  puzzling  veil  which  had  dropped  over 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  187 

the  last  eight  years.  The  feeling  of  trust  and  friend- 
ship was  surely  a  good  enough  guide  to  go  by.  And 
she  was  so  in  need  of  help! 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do?"  she  said  impulsively. 

"Just  what  you're  doing,"  he  said  gently.     "Wait." 

"But— if  you  know—" 

"It's  hard.  But  somehow,  I  don't  believe  it's  as 
hard  as  it  seems." 

"Not  now,"  she  said.  "They  have  both  promised  to 
stay  away  till — till  I  can  think,  and  remember — or 
even  decide." 

"Don't  try  too  hard  to  come  to  a  decision,"  said  the 
strange  old  man  who  after  all  seemed  so  little  strange. 
"Let  the  decision  come  to  you.  I  am  nearly  sure  that 
it  will,  and  I  have  seen  a  great  many  things  happen." 

She  wondered  if  he  knew  how  she  longed  for  Victor, 
how  Victor's  face  came  before  her  all  the  time,  and  his 
love  seemed  to  be  the  one  thing  in  the  world  she  must 
have.  .  .  .  No.  Old  people  couldn't  know  those 
things.  But  he  was  kind,  and  having  him  there  felt 
like  help,  some  way.  They  talked  a  little  longer 
before  he  drove  away. 

He  turned  at  the  gate. 

"I'm  going  to  do  what  some  people  may  think  is  a 
very  wrong  thing,  Eileen,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  to 
advise  a  man  against  his  conscience.  .  .  ." 

She  wondered  what  he  meant,  until  the  next  day. 
Then  she  knew. 

She  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  garden,  the  next 
night,  and  she  saw  a  man  standing  by  the  gate  again. 


i88  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

Not  Dr.  Blanton,  this  time.  The  vivid  face,  the  quick- 
moving  figure  that  had  haunted  her  ever  since  her 
awakening. 

"Victor!"  said  her  heart;  her  lips  were  struck  dumb. 

"I  will  not  come  in  unless  you  say  I  may,"  he  said  in 
the  swift,  pleading  voice  she  remembered  so  well. 
He  leaned  across  the  gate,  his  brilliant  dark  eyes 
searching  hers.  "It's  so  long,  Eileen!  I  have  broken 
my  promise,  to  come.  .  .  .  Won't  you  give  me  back 
the  rest  of  it  and  let  me  in?" 

What  was  it  she  had  promised — to  be  very  calm, 
very  cold,  very  careful?  For  she  was  neither.  She 
had  his  hands  in  hers  before  she  knew  it. 

"Oh,  I  have  wanted  you  so!"  she  said. 

"Then  you  do  forgive  me?  You  do  love  me  yet? 
You  do  remember  me?" 

The  words  hurried  on  in  the  old  swift  way  so  well 
remembered.  He  drew  her  close  to  him.  It  seemed 
so  right  and  so  natural!  And  yet  through  all  some- 
thing far  back  in  Eileen's  brain  urged  to  be  heard. 
She  must  go  back  to  Alistair — there  was  some  good 
reason  she  should  remember.  But  it  was  all  so  dim  and 
confused — this  man  with  his  arms  around  her  was  the 
only  real  thing  in  the  world. 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  really  forgot  you,"  she 
whispered.  "Everything  I  have  touched  or  done, 
even  in  this  house,  had  had  you  written  all  over  it.  It 
was  just  as  if  you  had  been  with  me  always — always! 
and  you  know — oh,  no  matter  what  I  seemed  to  do  I 
know  I  always  loved  just  you." 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  189 

Walking  towards  a  little  bench,  they  sat  down 
together.  Eileen  felt  steadier  now  and  drew  away  a 
little. 

"But  I  have  a  right  to  what  they  have  left  me  of  my 
youth!"  she  told  herself  fiercely.  "Nobody  can  blame 
me  for  that  other  Eileen's  doings." 

Her  lover  laid  his  hand  on  hers.  How  well  she 
remembered  the  warm  protectiveness  of  that  handl 

"Your  dream-love, 
Wait  for  her; 
She'll— be— true— " 

"Do  you  ever  think  of  that  thing  you  used  to  sing 
for  me?  You  were  my  dream-love  always." 

"But  if  that  is  true,"  the  angry  thought  came,  even 
with  his  arm  about  her,  "if  that  is  true,  why  did  he 
marry  that  other  woman?"  A  host  of  questions  rose 
to  her  mind.  He  had  married  first.  But  it  would 
spoil  the  hour  for  her  to  question  now.  There  was 
plenty  of  time. 

The  wonderful  night  was  full  of  gentle  murmurs 
and  the  perfume  of  flowers,  and  Eileen  was  happy  for 
the  first  time  since  she  had  found  herself.  After  all, 
who  is  to  blame  for  anything?  Perhaps  even  Alistair 
might  have  a  just  excuse.  She  shivered.  She  did  not 
want  to  think  of  that  other  Eileen's  husband,  whose 
ring  was  on  her  finger.  She  took  away  her  hand. 

"It-— isn't  right,"  she  said.  "I  shouldn't  be  here  with 
you." 


190  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

He  laughed. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  what  could  be  more  right?" 

"It  isn't  right,"  again  she  protested  helplessly  like  a 
child.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Please  go,"  she 
said,  "I  was  wrong  to  let  you  come." 

"Why  wrong?"  he  asked.  "You  are  going  to  belong 
to  me  again,  surely,  Eileen?" 

She  leaned  wearily  against  him. 

"I  am  so  tired,  and  it  is  so  hard  to  do  right!  Please 
go  now — dearest!" 

"But  I  may  come  again,  and  you  will  have  decided?" 
he  said,  his  hands  closing  upon  hers,  and  his  bright 
dark  eyes  looking  down  into  hers  swimming  with  tears. 
"To-morrow  night,  Eileen.  You  can  decide  by  to-mor- 
row night,  easily."  He  rose  and  went  toward  the  gate. 
"I  know  now  that  you  will  make  the  right  decision,"  he 
said  gently,  "and  that  it  will  be  for  me." 

And  Eileen  watched  him  go  swiftly  down  the  road, 
as  she  could  remember  watching  him  many,  many 
times  before.  Then  she  went  back  to  the  house  to  lie 
awake  thinking  till  dawn.  Divorce,  yes,  that  was  the 
way  out,  she  decided.  A  divorce  could  be  obtained 
somewhere,  of  that  she  was  fairly  sure.  Even  juries 
had  heard  enough  of  such  cases  as  hers  to  believe  her 
and  free  her.  Or  perhaps  Alistair  Gray  would 
relinquish  his  claim.  He  had  been  kind  to  her — he 
was  being  kind  still.  She  lifted  her  eyes  listlessly  to 
the  walls  of  the  room.  He  was  leaving  her  alone, 
certainly,  in  the  midst  of  all  these  lovely  things.  And 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  191 

Victor  had  not  waited.  It  was  only  chance  that  his 
wife  had  died  and  left  him  free.  But  had  he  played 
fair  in  coming  to  her  when  she  had  asked  him  not  to? 
Yet  Victor's  eager  eyes  and  voice,  and  his  ways  that 
she  knew  so  well  and  loved  so  well,  had  revived  all  the 
old  love,  and  even  more.  A  passionate  yearning  for 
him — that  was  something  new — something  that  made 
her  pulse  beat  faster — something  that  made  nothing 
else  matter. 

And  she  knew  then  the  answer  she  would  give  him 
the  next  night.  In  the  morning  she  got  up  singing, 
refreshed  as  if  she  had  slept  the  whole  night  through. 
That  other  man,  Alistair  Gray,  whom  she  hated,  had 
stolen  for  himself  a  wife — not  a  real  woman.  And 
whose  fault  was  it  if  that  other  Eileen,  that  wife,  had 
gone  back  into  the  unreal  from  whence  she  came? 
There  was  nothing  left  of  her  now  but  these  fineries 
that  the  real  Eileen  was  wearing,  and  the  expression  of 
wisdom  she  had  noted  in  the  hand  mirror. 

She  ran  to  the  cheval  glass  between  the  windows  of 
her  room.  No,  thank  God,  that  look  was  gone!  She 
was  Eileen  Arden  again,  with  the  wondering  eyes — 
once  again  a  girl — and  Victor's.  The  wistful  voice 
deep  down  in  her  subconscious  self  that  wanted  to  be 
heard  whispered  for  a  moment,  and  then  that  too  was 
gone. 

"I  will  never  dream  of  Alistair  Gray  any  more,"  she 
rejoiced.  It  was  all  over;  she  had  no  more  scruples 
or  fears.  There  *as  nothing  to  do  now  but  wait  till 


192  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

her  lover's  slim,  erect  figure  came  in  sight  down  the 
road  in  the  moonlight. 

And  so  at  nearly  the  same  hour  as  before  he  came. 
She  was  watching  for  him.  Eileen  had  chosen  a  soft, 
green  gown  to  wear.  "He  will  like  this,"  she  thought, 
puzzling  with  the  half -memory  again.  He  had  liked 
it,  or  one  like  it,  long  ago.  Oh,  everything  would  come 
back  soon! 

He  wasted  no  words  this  time  when  he  reached  her. 

"The  decision,  Eileen?"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
arms.  He  seemed  so  confident  and  he  was  smiling. 

"I  think — I  belong  to  you,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  hungrily. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  he  said  finally.  "You  will  not  seem 
really  mine  again  until  you  have  let  me  in." 

Into  another  man's  house?  She  wondered — yet 
without  a  word  she  followed  him  through  the  French 
window.  One  of  the  maids  was  standing  in  the  hall. 
With  a  gesture  of  authority  he  dismissed  her  and  drew 
Eileen  to  a  seat  beside  him  on  a  couch. 

"Thank  Heaven,  you  have  come  back  to  me,  little 
girl!"  he  said,  with  his  arm  close  around  her. 

For  a  moment  Eileen  rebelled.  He  was  taking 
everything  so  absolutely  for  granted!  And  she  was 
committing  herself  to  a  course  of  action  that  she  knew 
was  dangerous  and  disloyal. 

"Don't  you  think  that—"  It  was  so  difficult  to  go 
on,  and  she  faltered  and  began  again.  "Don't  you 
think  it  is  wrong  to  leave  Alistair  Gray  without  seeing 
him — without  telling  him  of — of — our  love — that  I 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  193 

never  really  gave  myself  to  him — that  I  am  yours — 
and—" 

He  caught  her  to  him  with  a  cry  almost  of  terror. 
"Eileen,  dear— Eileen  1" 

"What  is  it?"  she  gasped,  terrified  in  turn  by  the 
note  of  fear  in  his  voice. 

He  put  her  a  little  way  from  him,  and  held  her  so, 
with  his  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"Is  it  worse  than  we  thought?"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self. "Child,  who  am  I?" 

For  a  moment  the  world  seemed  to  be  going  to  pieces 
around  her. 

"Isn't  there  any  you?"  she  gasped.  "Have  I  been 
mad  and  imagined  it  all — was  there  no  Victor  I  was 
going  to  marry;  was  there  no  Alistair  Gray  who 
married  me?  Oh,  whoever  you  are,  tell  me — tell  me 
what  is  true ! " 

"That  is  all  true,"  he  said.  "There  was  a  Victor 
you  were  going  to  marry — there  was  an  Alistair  who 
married  you.  But  answer — who  do  you  think  I  am?" 
He  spoke  with  a  passionate  anxiety,  his  eyes  burning 
down  into  hers. 

"Aren't — you — Victor?"  she  stammered,  scarcely 
able  to  articulate. 

"My  poor  little  girl!"  he  said,  drawing  her  to  him 
again,  "I  am  your  husband.  I'm  Alistair  Gray. 
Don't  let  go  of  yourself  that  way,  Eileen.  Don't 
faint,  it's  true." 

She  caught  at  her  throat. 

"But  I  took  you  for — but  who  was  the  man  in  the 


194  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

doorway  that  day  I  awakened?"  she  implored.  "I  saw 
him — the  gray  man." 

He  held  her  tighter. 

"Good  Heavens,  Eileen,  that  was  Doctor  Blanton! 
You  have  seen  him  since.  But  I  was  close  behind  him. 
Didn't  you  see  me  at  all?" 

"I  fainted,"  she  said  wonderingly. 

He  touched  her  hair  soothingly. 

"Poor  little  woman!  Have  you  been  thinking  all 
this  time  that  that  half-seen  glimpse  of  Blanton  was  I? 
It  seems  incredible;  yet  it  was  perfectly  natural  after 
all.  But — to  have  thought  me  that  old  lover  of 
yours!"  There  was  a  half -note  of  vexation  in  his 
voice.  "How  did  you  come  to  saddle  me  with  his 
name?" 

Eileen,  still  in  his  arms,  leaned  her  head  on  her  hus- 
band's shoulder  and  thought. 

"I  remembered  that  I  was  going  to  marry  him,"  she 
answered  slowly.  "It  was  all  dim  and  faded.  And 
the  love  for  you  in  my  heart,  Alistair,  and  the  picture 
of  you  printed  on  all  those  years  of  my  life  must  have 
been  so  strong  that  they  fused  with  the  name  of  the 
man  I  thought  I  loved.  I  can't  remember  that  face  at 
all.  Do  you  know  what  he  looked  like?" 

"I  have  seen  him,"  said  Alistair  quietly.  "He  had 
fair  hair  and  blue  eyes — rather  a  saintly  type.  A  good 
boy.  I  didn't  court  you  till  he'd  been  married  a  year, 
dearest.  I  didn't  think  I  was  wronging  you." 

"Oh,  don't  be  humble,  Alistair;  it  isn't  like  you. 
You  see,  I'm  remembering  now  a  little.  Yes;  I  do 


THAT  OTHER  EILEEN  195 

remember  that  face,  I  think.  I'm  sorry  he  wants  me 
again,  but — "  she  laughed  lightly — "he  really  isn't 
entitled  to  me.  I'm  glad  it  was  he  who  kept  his 
promise  to  stay  away,  not  you.  Well,  he  doesn't 
matter  now  one  way  or  the  other — " 

"There  is  something  else  for  you  to  remember,"  he 
told  her  presently.  But  she  was  not  frightened,  for 
he  was  smiling.  What  else  could  possibly  happen  that 
was  not  so?  Eileen  wondered. 

"Yet  there  is  something,"  she  thought,  with  a  shade 
of  perplexity  knitting  her  forehead,  "something  that  I 
should  remember.  Something  that  held  me  to  you," 
she  said  aloud.  "Oh,  how  wonderful  that  you  should 
be  you." 

•'Try  to  think,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  his  eyes  on 
hers.  "I  want  you  to  remember  for  yourself.  Think. 
Do  you  remember  your  room  at  home?  Think  of  the 
door  that  opens  from  it." 

"Yes,"  she  said  obediently,  "yes;  a  door — beside  the 
window  that  opened  west—"  Her  brows  knit  again  in 
the  effort  of  recollection. 

uYou  are  remembering,"  he  said.  "I  knew  it  would 
come  of  itself,  if — if  I  could  but  have  sufficient 
patience." 

"Poor — Alistair!"  she  said,  and  the  name  seemed 
familiar  and  dear  now.  "Was  it  hard?" 

"Never  mind  that,  dear.  Try  to  remember,"  he  said 
again.  "The  door  was  on  the  west.  Yes;  and  when 
you  opened  that  door — " 

"I — am — remembering,"  she  faltered,  her  face  white 


196  THAT  OTHER  EILEEN 

and  her  hands  clenching  on  his,  "in  the  corner  is — a — 
draped  thing.  We  were  waiting — Alistair,  Alistair,  I 
remember  now!"  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  eyes 
blazing.  "That  was  why.  Where  is  it?  Where  is 
our  baby?  Is  it  safe?  Is  it  alive?  Alistair!" 

"Safe — alive — "  he  said.  "You  were  delirious  for 
five  weeks  after  he  came.  Then  when  you  woke  you 
did  not  remember — " 

She  clung  to  him  with  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"Take  me  back  to  him,  take  me  to-night!  Oh, 
Alistair,  if  I  had  not  remembered!" 

"You  were  bound  to  remember,"  he  said.    "I  knew — 

"My  dream-love, 
Wait  for  her; 
She'll— be— true— " 

"Can  you  remember  singing  it  to  me?" 
"To  you?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said  marveling. 
"Then  it  was  all  you — only  you  always !     Oh,  I  am 
true,  Alistair.     Can  you  forgive  me?" 


ADJUSTMENT 

IT  seems  a  thousand  years  away  now,  instead  of  the 
short  years  it  is,  the  time  when  the  officers'  dances  went 
on,  let  alone  had  just  begun.  Yet  the  time  was  when 
they  were  a  new  thing,  and  you  went  to  them  feeling 
partly  thrilled  and  partly,  unless  you  had  a  missionary 
instinct,  not  quite  decorous.  The  girls  with  mission- 
ary instincts,  of  course,  went  complacently,  talking 
largely  about  being  kind  to  the  poor  lonely  boys.  But 
Cecilia  Burden,  when  she  went,  and  changed  her  whole 
life  thereby,  felt  neither  like  a  missionary  nor  a  gay 
adventurer.  She  felt  like  a  girl  who  had  done  a  very 
foolish  and  not  quite  excusable  thing.  She  was  always 
ashamed  of  herself  when  her  loneliness  won  out  over 
her  pride. 

She  had  always  been  a  peculiarly  lonely  person; 
none  the  less  so  because  most  people  considered  her 
very  fortunate.  Her  father  and  mother  had  died  when 
she  was  very  little,  leaving  her  well  off.  There  had 
been  no  relatives  near  enough  to  feel  that  they  should 
take  the  little  girl  into  their  home.  A  conscientious 
but  uninterested  second  cousin  had  seen  to  it  that  she 
was  kept  in  excellent  schools;  and  she  herself  had 
insisted  on  ending  her  education  in  college  instead  of 
being  fashionably  "finished."  Nobody  but  herself 
knew  why  she  did  it.  And  she  did  not  always  admit 

197, 


I98  ADJUSTMENT 

the  reason  even  to  herself.  It  was  really  because  she 
had  hoped  secretly  and  desperately  that  college  would 
give  her  some  friend  more  genuine  and  devoted  than 
the  fashionable  schools  afforded;  some  one  who  could 
give  her  a  peephole  or  perhaps  a  doorway  into  a  home. 
All  her  life  she  had  been  starved  for  home  life,  for 
some  one  who  really  belonged  to  her.  But  she  hoped 
that  nobody  knew  it,  quite  as  hard  as  she  hoped  it 
could  happen. 

She  was  tall  and  fair  and  proud-looking;  a  girl  who 
gave  an  impression  of  having  everything  life  could  give, 
and  desiring  nothing  more.  And  the  pride  that  iced 
over  her  loneliness  might  have  gone  on  thickening  all 
her  days  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  war. 

The  year  before  the  war's  end  moved  her,  even 
as  it  did  every  one  else  in  America.  She  felt  herself 
carried  forward  by  the  prevailing  impetus  of  friendli- 
ness, of  comradeship  with  every  one.  Her  wall  of 
shyness  and  lonely  pride  melted  ever  so  little;  and  so 
it  was  that  when  she  heard  an  acquaintance  at  a  formal 
dinner  lamenting  her  unfilled  quota  of  girls  for  an 
officers'  dance  one  night,  she  had  courage  to  lean  across 
a  couple  of  people  and  volunteer,  even  with  eagerness. 
She  really  wanted  to  go;  she  wanted  the  fun  and  the 
excitement  of  it,  and  the  contact  with  the  men.  There 
would  be  men  there  whom  she  had  never  seen  before 
and  need  never  see  again;  men  who  would  be  friends 
for  the  moment,  and  with  whom  there  would  be  no 
necessity  of — just  what,  she  would  not  formulate  to 
herself.  .The  unformulated  feeling  was  really  that 


ADJUSTMENT  199 

they  could  not  think  she  wanted  them.  It  was  a  little 
morbid  streak  that  had  grown  in  her  because  in  her 
heart  she  knew  that  her  only  way  to  the  things  she 
wanted  lay  through  marriage.  Because  of  this  secret 
knowledge  she  had  more  and  more  terror  of  seeming  to 
make  advances,  even  of  the  merest  friendliness,  to  men. 

Mrs.  Hallett  looked  a  little  surprised  when  perfectly 
gowned,  perfectly  poised  Miss  Burden  volunteered  to 
fill  in  her  quota  of  damsels;  Cecilia  didn't  seem  that 
sort  of  girl.  You  could  better  imagine  her  efficiently 
running  committees.  But  she  needed  Cecilia,  and 
accepted  her  eagerly  and  gratefully.  And  in  an  hour 
from  then  Cecilia  found  herself  taking  Mrs.  Hallett  and 
three  chattering  girls  down  to  the  clubrooms  where  the 
officers  waited.  She  felt  ashamed  of  herself  already, 
and  very  alien. 

"I  hope  it  will  be  a  good  night/'  one  of  the  girls 
confided  to  her,  feeling  for  a  rouge-pad.  "You  know, 
they  run  the  queerest  way — one  night  you  have 
a  perfectly  grand  time,  and  the  next  they're  as 
stupid  as  can  be.  Never  been  before?  Oh,  you'll 
like  it.  The  best  way's  to  come  regularly,  and  make 
dates  over." 

The  girl,  a  little  yellow-haired  thing  clad  exquisitely 
in  deep  blue  velvet,  chattered  on,  and  Cecilia  answered 
her  just  enough  for  courtesy.  She  felt  more  and  more 
chilled.  After  all,  was  it  her  sort  of  thing?  Were  not 
the  staid  dinners  and  dances  of  the  people  she  knew, 
devoid  as  they  were  of  any  chance  of  novelty  or  ad- 
venture, where  she  really  belonged?  But  she  went  to 


zoo  ADJUSTMENT 

the  dressing-room  and  down  to  the  long  dancing-rooms 
with  the  rest,  holding  her  head  all  the  higher  because 
she  felt  so  ashamed  of  having  come  on  an  impulse. 

The  band  was  excellent,  and  the  dancing  had  already 
begun.  Her  chaperon  introduced  her  quickly  to  a 
couple  of  shy  midshipmen,  and  she  whirled  out  on  the 
floor  with  one  of  them.  He  would  have  liked  better, 
she  was  sure,  the  little  yellow-haired  thing  who  had 
chattered  to  her  on  the  way  down;  but  at  least  he  was 
respectful.  Indeed,  he  was  so  in  awe  of  her  he 
scarcely  spoke.  The  adventure  was  not  exciting  so 
far. 

Her  second  partner  was  a  gay  Southerner,  who 
flattered  her  mechanically  and  cheerfully  through  two 
sweeping  and  too-close-held  dances,  then  abandoned 
her  eagerly  for  a  little  girl  he  had  made  a  date  with,  he 
said,  last  time. 

"Mighty  nice  kids  you  can  pick  up  at  these  dances 
sometimes,"  he  added  reflectively;  and  Cecilia  felt 
annoyed  at  his  too-patronizing  tone.  After  that  she 
tried  to  sit  out.  But  in  those  early  and  strenuous  days 
the  chaperons  wouldn't  let  you.  She  was  forced  on  a 
big  dark  Captain  of  Infantry  who  scarcely  spoke,  to 
her  relief,  for  their  first  round  of  the  room.  Then  he 
looked  down  at  her,  and,  as  if  something  he  saw 
suddenly  waked  him  into  friendship,  began  to  talk — 
began  in  the  very  middle  of  things,  pouring  out  his 
feelings  as  only  naturally  repressed  people  ever  do. 
He  had  not  talked  to  any  one,  he  said,  for  half  a  year. 

"I  like  you,"  he  went  on  in  a  tone  removed  from 


ADJUSTMENT  201 

rudeness  by  its  detached  sincerity.  "You're  the  first 
woman  I've  seen  to-night  that  I  haven't  felt  miles  away 
from.  And  I'm — I've  simply  got  to  let  out  to  some- 
body. We  mayn't  see  each  other  again — won't,  prob- 
ably. Do  you  mind  if  I  act  as  if  I  knew  you  awfully 
well,  and  let  loose  and  tell  you  things?" 

Cecilia  shook  her  head.  Her  heart  beat  a  little 
faster.  So  there  were  other  lonely  people  in  the  world. 

"We  may  never  meet  again,"  she  echoed.  "Say 
what  you  want  to." 

That  was  the  beginning  of  everything.  Naturally, 
they  met  again  in  two  days,  and  six  weeks  after  that 
they  had  married.  Things  went  swiftly  in  the  days 
of  the  Great  War. 

He  was  of  her  own  kind  and  class,  and  like  her, 
without  kith  or  kin  except  for  one  little  old  cousin  in 
Delaware.  He  was  one  of  the  big,  silent  men  who  veil 
high-strung  nerves  under  a  seeming  steadiness  and 
stolidity.  His  straight-looking  brown  eyes  and  rather 
heavy,  regular-featured  face  covered,  Cecilia  learned 
before  she  had  seen  him  three  times,  a  sensitiveness 
and  loneliness  greater  than  her  own.  In  spite  of  the 
swiftness  of  the  affair,  neither  of  them  had  any  doubts 
that  they  were  doing  right.  And  there  was  no  time  to 
doubt  on  the  honeymoon.  He  went  over  within  a 
month  and  ten  days  after  they  were  married,  with  the 
memory  of  five  weeks  of  absolute  happiness. 

Cecilia  lived,  when  he  had  gone,  with  the  old  cousin 
he  had  told  her  of  in  the  South;  a  gentle,  fluttering  old 
lady  who  admired  her  and  petted  her  in  the  pleasantly 


202  ADJUSTMENT 

articulate  fashion  of  her  kind.  The  two  of  them  got  on 
well  and,  after  Cecilia  had  recovered  from  the  first 
wrench  of  parting,  were  very  content.  The  girl  had  not 
been  a  wife  long  enough  to  make  Lawrence's  society  so 
much  a  habit  that  she  actually  suffered  from  any  gap  in 
her  life.  Her  very  real  affection  for  him  simply  made 
her  build  her  life,  with  an  abandon  which  she  scarcely 
herself  realized,  out  toward  the  time  of  his  return. 
He,  and  his  coming,  came  to  mean  to  her  the  fulfilment 
of  all  that  she  had  ever  missed;  he  meant  to  her  the 
home  she  had  never  known,  the  love  she  had  needed  so 
long  and  so  intensely.  Presently  she  found  that  there 
was  to  be  a  child,  and  she  was  almost  entirely  happy. 
She  lived  now  in  the  dream  of  Lawrence  and  the  child 
and  the  home  of  the  future.  It  came  to  be,  though 
she  did  not  know  it,  less  love  of  her  husband  than  of  all 
he  would  bring  her.  And  time  went,  and  the  baby 
came;  and  Cecilia,  caring  for  it  and  writing  and  receiv- 
ing long,  ecstatic  letters,  surrounded  by  the  soft  de- 
votion of  little  old  Cousin  Lorena,  knew  more  happi- 
ness than  she  had  thought  existed ;  but  still  a  happiness 
founded  on  what  was  to  come,  rather  than  what  was. 

It  was  a  quiet  life  enough;  Cousin  Lorena  had  a 
round  of  mild  elderly  society:  a  sewing-circle  which 
had  been  meeting  undisturbed  since  the  youth  of  its 
members  thirty  years  since,  an  old  beau  or  so  who  still 
called  punctiliously  in  his  rounds  among  the  "girls" 
whom  he  had  known  for  the  same  length  of  time; 
accustomed  attendance  at  old  Dr.  Blanton's  church, 


ADJUSTMENT  203 

where  the  sermons  were  long  and  gentle  and  rambling, 
and  full  of  "literary  allusions":  drives  in  a  carriage 
with  a  horse  which,  though  probably  not  contemporary 
with  the  rest  of  Cousin  Lorena's  friends,  seemed  to  be. 
There  were  younger  people,  but  Cecilia  did  not  seem 
to  care  to  bother. 

And  then  came  the  armistice;  and,  presently,  news 
that  Lawrence  was  coming  home. 

"I  can  scarcely  wait  to  see  you,"  he  wrote.  "It 
seems  as  if  it  were  forever.  .  .  When  I  think  of 
getting  back  to  you  and  our  baby  it  seems  like  a  piece 
of  Heaven.  .  .  ." 

Finally  the  cable  came,  with  the  exact  date  of  his 
arrival.  It  would  be  in  New  York.  Cecilia  was  in 
Delaware. 

"We'll  see  him!  We'll  see  him  soon!  You  shall 
have  your  father  as  soon  as  I  can  take  you  to  New 
York,  you  darling!"  she  chanted  to  the  baby  of  her 
adoration,  bending  over  him  and  lifting  him  up  to  kiss. 

"Cecilia,  darlinM"  said  old  Cousin  Lorena's  soft 
voice,  a  little  troubled  and  remonstrant.  "You  won't 
take  that  baby,  will  you,  all  the  way  to  the  city,  with 
the  change  of  climate  an'  all?  I  think  yo'  husband 
comes  first." 

Cecilia  wheeled,  aghastly,  the  baby  in  her  arms;  and 
at  the  sudden  motion  he  began  to  cry. 

"He's  like  Lawrence — awful  nervous,"  warned  old 
Cousin  Lorena,  undaunted.  "An'  I  don't  think  you 
should  take  so  young  an  infant  so  far." 


204  ADJUSTMENT 

"Not  show  him  to  his  father?  Why,  Lawrence  is 
wild  to  see  him.  I  couldn't  lose  a  minute  showing  him 
the  baby." 

Cousin  Lorena,  little  and  frail  against  the  enormous 
old-fashioned  bureau  in  the  nursery,  looked  troubled 
still. 

"Leave  him  with  me,  darling,"  she  urged.  "He's  a 
bottle  baby;  it  won't  be  any  trouble.  An'  then  you  an' 
Lawrence  can  have  your  lovely  reunion  like  lovers." 

Cecilia  found  herself  more  impatient  with  dear  little 
Cousin  Lorena  than  she  had  ever  been  since  they  lived 
together.  What  an  impossible  combination  of  senti- 
mentality and  expediency  these  old-fashioned  ladies 
were!  And  anyway,  Cousin  Lorena  didn't  know 
about  being  married.  And  probably  it  was  just  that 
she  wanted  the  baby.  Cecilia  did  not  realize  how 
fiercely  she  adored  her  baby,  nor  how  near  he  was  to 
blotting  out  everything  else  in  her  life.  She  was  a 
woman  of  strong  emotions,  who  had  never  thought 
much  about  them,  nor  admitted  to  them  more  than  she 
could  help. 

At  all  events,  she  cabled  back  joyously  to  Lawrence, 
and  spent  every  moment  before  her  departure  in  buying 
pretty  things  for  the  baby.  She  was  so  absorbed  in  it 
that  she  forgot  to  pack  half  her  own  pretty  clothes. 

When  the  time  came  she  took  Maynard  and  his 
nurse  and  traveled  to  New  York,  where  she  engaged  a 
suite  in  a  hotel  and  waited  impatiently  for  the  transport 
to  return. 


ADJUSTMENT  205 

She  found  herself  sitting  in  the  waiting-room  at  the 
actual  hour  it  docked,  her  heart  beating  violently. 
She  had  to  sit  still,  because  of  little  Maynard,  asleep 
in  her  arms.  She  could  hear  tramplings  and  laughter 
and  exclamations  in  the  next  room,  that  room  where 
Lawrence  must  be.  One  of  the  voices  she  heard 
might  be  his.  Would  the  physical  examination  never 
be  over?  .  .  .  The  noises  went  on;  she  could  hear 
doctors  giving  orders,  the  heavy  footsteps  of  men,  a 
good  deal  of  swearing  and  a  little  laughter.  Other 
women  waited  around  her.  She  could  not  bear  to 
speak  to  them;  her  whole  being  was  too  tense  with 
expectancy. 

The  door  opened  four  times,  and  men  came  hurried- 
ly through,  looking  about  eagerly  for  their  womenfolk; 
each  time  Cecilia's  heart  leaped,  then  subsided  with  a 
sick  disappointment.  The  baby,  affected  by  her 
tension,  finally  began  to  whimper.  Presently  she 
became  absorbed  in  soothing  him. 

It  was  then,  as  luck  would  have  it,  that  Lawrence 
entered  and  looked  about  for  her.  Her  head  was  bent 
down  over  the  child,  and  he  did  not  know  her  im- 
mediately. He  stared  about  him  impatiently,  walked 
through  the  room  a  couple  of  times  in  search  of  her, 
before  either  saw  the  other.  Then  it  was  she  who 
looked  up,  and  they  saw  each  other. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  then,  kissing  her  openly 
and  hungrily,  careless  of  the  waiting  people  about 
them.  She  clung  to  him  closely,  scarcely  believing 


206  ADJUSTMENT 

that  it  was  true,  for  a  minute,  or  real,  so  suddenly  it 
had  all  happened.  The  baby,  more  roughly  touched 
than  before  in  all  his  adored  months,  began  to  cry. 

Lawrence  jerked  back  and  raised  his  head,  and 
Cecilia  got  her  first  good  look  at  him.  He  was  a  little 
heavier  than  when  he  went  away;  but  nevertheless  he 
did  not  look  so  well.  He  was  pale  under  his  tan,  and 
the  lines  of  his  face  sagged. 

"Can't  you  make  that  child  stop?"  he  demanded 
sharply;  and  then,  seeing  her  shocked  look,  caught 
himself  up  penitently.  "I  didn't  mean  to  sound  so 
cross,  darling.  He  was  so  close,  and  he  made  such  a 
surprising  noise.  They — they  all  cry,  don't  they?" 

He  smiled  down  at  her.  For  a  moment  he  was  the 
old  Lawrence.  Cecilia  had  been  chilled  and  jarred, 
but  she  smiled  back,  reassured. 

"They  do,  once  in  awhile.  This  baby  of  ours  has 
never  cried  much  till  now.  I  suppose  I  shouldn't  have 
brought  him  down  here  with  me  to-day.  But  I  did 
want  to  show  him  to  you." 

"This  baby  of  ours!  Lord,  that  sounds  wonderful! " 
said  her  husband  fervently;  and  the  last  touch  of  chill 
faded  from  Cecilia's  heart.  He  was  going  to  love  the 
baby;  just  as  he  had  said  in  the  letters. 

"Back  with  you!  and  all  that  hellish  time  over  for 
good.  This  is  like  a  dream!"  Lawrence  began,  drop- 
ping in  the  nearest  settee  and  pulling  Cecilia  to  him, 
when  they  had  entered  their  rooms.  "Oh,  gosh,  I 
forgot  that  baby!  Do  you  wear  him  all  the  time? 
Put  it  away,  won't  you,  darling,  and  talk  to  me?  And 


ADJUSTMENT  207 

tell  me  what  shows  there  are  in  town.  We'll  celebrate 
— what  do  you  say?" 

There  was  a  nurse,  fortunately.  Cecilia  rose,  with 
the  baby,  who  had  begun  to  whimper  faintly  again  at 
Lawrence's  unfamiliar  touch,  and  took  him  in  to  the 
room  where  he  slept.  She  felt  faintly  chilled,  again. 
Lawrence  seemed  so  different  from  what  she  remem- 
bered him  to  be.  But  she  went  back  to  him,  and 
discussed  theaters  with  him. 

Things  went  along  gayly  for  a  couple  of  days.  Hav- 
ing Lawrence  back,  and  hurrying  about  from  gaiety 
to  gaiety  with  him  was  delightful  at  first.  But — there 
was  the  baby.  It  fretted  her  secretly  that  her  hus- 
band did  not  seem  interested  in  him,  and  was  frankly 
irritated  when  he  cried.  And,  whether  Cecilia  ad- 
mitted it  to  herself  or  not,  to  her  the  baby  came  first. 
It  was  hers,  after  all,  and  had  been  hers  nearly  a  year. 
She'd  only  had  a  few  weeks  of  Lawrence.  She  did  not 
realize  this  herself,  really.  She  was  not  much  given 
to  thinking  things  out. 

Lawrence's  demands  continued  to  be  many,  and  to 
detach  Cecilia  more  and  more  from  her  much-valued 
baby.  He  seemed  tired,  yet  thirsty  for  change,  for 
amusement,  for  fresh  things  and  faces.  Cecilia  did  not 
want  any  of  these  things  in  her  heart.  The  home,  the 
ordered  routine  of  a  house,  a  husband  and  child — 
children,  perhaps — were  what  she  wanted,  what  she 
waited  for  impatiently.  She  had  wanted  these  things 
all  her  life.  She  had  believed  that  they  would  be  hers 
with  Lawrence's  return.  And  now  they  were  ap- 


208  ADJUSTMENT 

parently  as  far  away  as  ever.  One  night  at  a  dance 
she  asked  him,  point-blank,  why  he  cared  so  much 
more  for  this  sort  of  thing  than  for  the  life  they  had 
planned  before  he  left. 

He  did  not  seem  to  feel  that  she  was  reproaching 
him.  He  only  laughed  a  little  as  he  explained. 

"Well,  we  feel  we  need  a  little  pay  for  all  we've  gone 
through,"  he  told  her.  "The  fuss  people  make  over  us 
is  nothing  to  the  way  the  French  worship  the  poilus.  . .  . 
Seems  to  me  people  over  here  don't  care  an  awful  lot 
about  it  all — well,  I  suppose  they  weren't  where  they 
knew  about  it.  Even  you,  darling — " 

Cecilia  flushed  up  with  hurt  pride,  and  stayed  care- 
fully away  from  him  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  So 
all  he  wanted  was  to  be  feted!  She  thought  of  the 
staid,  responsible  Lawrence  she  had  known,  and 
wondered  what  awful  thing  the  war  had  done.  And 
she  stayed  away  from  him  for  the  rest  of  the  evening, 
which  unfortunately  for  her  plan  of  punishment  he  did 
not  seem  to  mind.  . 

The  nurse  met  them  on  their  return  with  the  news 
that  little  Maynard  seemed  ill.  Cecilia  rushed  into 
his  room  in  a  flurry  of  satin  and  laces,  angry  at  her- 
self for  going  away  from  him,  and  at  Lawrence  for 
taking  her.  She  stayed  up  the  rest  of  the  night,  rather 
unnecessarily,  with  her  baby.  She  thought  of  it  as 
her  baby  only  now.  A  slow  anger  was  mounting  in  her 
at  Lawrence.  She  did  not  show  it,  she  thought.  But 
she  insisted  coldly  on  his  going  on  with  his  gaieties. 
She  herself  stayed  up  most  of  the  night  hours  with  her 


ADJUSTMENT  209 

baby,  who  seemed  no  better  and  no  worse  as  time 
went  on,  simply  fretful  and  restless  and  pulled  down. 
And  he  cried  more  continuously  than  even  Cecilia  had 
thought  any  baby  could  cry.  The  doctor  said  that 
the  child  would  be  all  right  when  he  got  back  to  the 
air  and  water  he  was  accustomed  to.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  he  would  get  acclimated  to  New  York,  if  she 
would  have  patience,  and  keep  him  outdoors  as  much 
as  possible. 

Lawrence  showed  no  sign  of  wishing  to  let  up  in 
his  round  of  engagements.  He  did  show  signs  of 
growing  irritation  with  the  baby's  continuous  wailings. 
And  Cecilia  continued  to  hold  on  to  herself,  though 
with  a  growing  feeling  of  hopelessness.  She  clung 
to  the  hope  ahead,  of  the  time  when  they  should  go 
back  home,  and  things  should  straighten  out,  and 
the  baby  get  well  and  happy  and  rosy  again,  and 
Lawrence  go  back  to  his  business  and  settle  into  the 
routine  of  life  with  her.  She  thought  that  if  he  said, 
"Good  Lord,  can't  you  stop  that  child?"  once  more, 
she  would  go  to  pieces. 

She  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  the 
child,  feeling  that  she  could  not  be  patient  much 
longer  without  at  least  one  outburst  of  frankness — 
and  also  that  she  had  been  far  too  patient  as  it  was — 
patting  it  mechanically  to  make  it  stop  whimpering. 
And  as  she  walked  and  thought  and  patted  Lawrence 
walked  into  the  room,  a  note  in  his  hand. 

"Cecilia,"  he  said  abruptly,  "I  can't  stand  the  way 
that  child  howls  much  longer.  I'm  going  down  to 


210  ADJUSTMENT 

Baltimore  to  a  house  party  I've  been  asked  to.  I 
know  God  alone  could  separate  you  from  that  baby, 
so  the  only  thing  I  can  suggest  is  that  you  take  him 
back  to  Cousin  Lorena's." 

Cecilia  stopped  short,  staring  at  him  with  a  dread- 
ful cold  feeling  about  her  heart.  So  this  was  the 
end! 

It  fell  on  her  from  an  absolutely  clear  sky.  It  had 
never  dawned  on  her  that  Lawrence,  in  spite  of  his 
altered  ways,  was  anything  but  devoted  to  her  under- 
neath. It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  would 
deliberately  do  so  inexcusable  a  thing  as  he  planned. 
He  did  not  love  her,  apparently.  That  he  did  not  love 
the  baby  had  been  sinking  into  her  consciousness 
bitterly  for  a  week. 

She  said  nothing.  She  merely  continued  her 
mechanical  movement  of  soothing  the  crying  child, 
staring  at  her  husband  over  his  little  contorted  face. 

"You  don't  care  a  bit  for  me,"  he  half  accused,  half 
defended,  in  the  way  that  was  so  unlike  the  good, 
responsible,  courteous  man  she  had  married.  "You 
only  care  for  that  screaming  child.  It  hasn't  made 
the  least  difference  to  you  that  he  was  driving  me 
mad." 

"Neither  of  us  will  ever  annoy  you  again,"  was  all 
she  found  to  say,  speaking  with  difficulty  through 
stiff  lips.  She  felt  frozen  and  heavy  all  over,  and 
as  if  she  were  going  through  some  horrible  thing  in 
a  dream.  She  dimly  heard  him  telling  her  in  a  half- 
frightened  voice  not  to  take  it  so  seriously,  not  to  act 


ADJUSTMENT  211 

that  way  about  it — but  she  could  not  answer  him.  She 
merely  put  out  one  repelling  hand,  then  turned  and 
went  away  from  him  to  the  farthest  room  of  their 
suite.  She  felt  in  that  moment  of  dull  and  frightened 
anger,  of  the  world  going  to  pieces  around  her,  that 
she  never  wanted  to  see  or  speak  to  Lawrence  again. 
She  felt,  too,  that  this  was  the  end. 

He  came  in  several  times  while  she  was  packing, 
and  tried  to  speak  to  her,  to  explain,  but  she  simply 
shook  her  head.  He  seemed  a  thousand  miles  away 
from  her. 

She  clung  all  the  more  fiercely  to  her  baby,  as  she 
went  on  her  way  down,  back  to  Cousin  Lorena's.  The 
nurse  might  as  well  not  have  been  along,  for  all  the 
care  she  needed  to  take  of  it.  Waking  or  sleeping, 
Cecilia  never  let  it  out  of  her  sight.  Over  the  little 
whimpering  thing  her  eyes  would  stare  unseeingly 
ahead,  and  she  would  think  and  think  and  think,  in 
circles  that  took  her  back  just  where  she  had  begun. 

So  this  was  the  end  of  her  married  life — the  life 
that  she  had  thought  would  make  up  to  her  for  every- 
thing she  had  ever  starved  for,  in  her  long,  mute  lone- 
liness. This  was  the  end — nothing  left  but  the  baby. 
And  he  was  going  to  be  a  man  too,  some  day,  a  man 
who  might  break  her  heart  and  disappoint  and  dis- 
illusion her.  .  .  .  She  was  the  kind  of  woman,  appar- 
ently, who  could  not  hold  a  man.  .  .  .  How  much  love 
did  Lawrence  have  for  her,  if  a  crying  baby  could 
make  him  turn  and  go  away  from  her  that  way? 
What  sort  of  despicable  person  was  he? 


212  ADJUSTMENT 

Sitting  in  the  train  calmly,  her  clear-cut,  pale  face 
a  quiet  mask,  her  mind  flung  itself  despairingly  from 
phase  to  phase  of  her  problem  .  .  .  though  why  she 
considered  it  a  problem  she  did  not  know.  She  felt 
subconsciously  that  there  was  more  to  it — that  there 
was  a  key,  if  she  only  knew  it;  some  way  out  at  least 
with  self-respect.  She  could  not  respect  herself,  as  it 
was,  and  she  knew  she  hated  and  despised  Lawrence. 
And  the  worst  of  it  was — she  loved  him,  she  knew  that 
now  that  they  were  parted  in  a  way  that  made  reunion 
very  unlikely.  She  loved  him  more  than  she  did  the 
baby.  And  he — he  had  cared  so  little  for  her  that 
he'd  left  her  because  he  didn't  like  to  hear  the  baby 
cry!  .  .  . 

"No,  he  won't  come  back,"  she  said  to  herself 
with  a  dreadful  certainty. 

She  sat  on,  feeling  very  young  and  lost  and  alone; 
very  wrecked.  She  did  not  want  the  baby  as  much 
as  she  wanted  her  husband.  .  .  .  Her  husband  was 
not  worth  wanting.  .  .  .  She  had  lost  her  chance  of 
keeping  him  on  account  of  the  baby.  .  .  .  But  the 
baby  was  all  she  had.  .  .  . 

She  was  too  proud  to  do  very  much  explaining  to 
Cousin  Lorena.  She  did  a  little — enough  to  make  the 
little  fluttering  old  lady's  face  turn  paler,  and  to  make 
her  hesitate  a  little  before  she  answered  naturally. 
But  she  did  answer  naturally.  Cousin  Lorena  was  a 
sport;  you  had  to  admit  that. 

"Lawrence  has  gone  to  a  house-party,"  was  all 
Cecilia  said.  "So  far  as  I  could  discover,  he  didn't 


ADJUSTMENT  213 

want  me  and  the  baby  along.  He  suggested  that  we 
— leave  him  and  come  down  here." 

"My  dear  child! "  was  all  Cousin  Lorena  said.  "But 
there,  I  know  how  things  are.  It  hurt  your  feelings 
a  little,  I  can  see  that.  .  .  .  Well,  there,  we  won't 
talk  about  it." 

Which  was  exactly  what  Cecilia  had  wished  for, 
but  had  not  dared  to  hope.  There  was  no  use,  if  it 
could  be  avoided,  going  into  things  with  Cousin 
Lorena.  She  was  only  going  to  stay  with  her  a  few 
days,  anyway;  just  long  enough  to  give  little  Maynard 
a  chance  to  pick  up,  and  to  pack  up  her  own  things. 
She  had  got  no  further  in  her  plans  than  return  to 
New  York,  and  a  temporary  stay  at  some  hotel, 
while  she  could  make  new  plans.  For  the  baby's 
sake  it  would  be  better  to  find  a  place  in  the 
country.  .  .  .  She  must  think  of  the  baby,  and  nothing 
else.  .  .  .  This  was,  of  course,  not  possible.  She 
thought  of  Lawrence  and  her  own  tragedy  all  day 
long;  and  if  she  managed  to  forget  for  a  little  while 
by  day,  at  length,  she  dreamed  about  it  all  night. 

Cousin  Lorena  assumed,  both  to  her  and  to  the 
people  about,  that  Lawrence  would  follow  his  wife 
and  child  in  a  few  days.  Cecilia  was  wild  to  be  off 
herself,  and  end  the  tension,  but  the  baby,  after  a 
couple  of  days'  health,  began  to  fret  again.  It  was 
partly  in  sympathy  with  her  own  unhappiness,  no 
doubt.  The  doctor  said  it  was  also  because  the  jour- 
ney had  upset  him.  It  would  be  a  couple  of  weeks 
at  least  before  he  could  travel. 


214  ADJUSTMENT 

Cecilia  felt  that  she  simply  could  not  stand  any 
more  of  all  this;  the  gentle  inquiries  as  to  what  she 
had  heard  from  her  husband,  the  pleasant  stories  of 
his  boyhood,  the  general  atmosphere  of  being  Law- 
rence's wife  still.  She  wanted  to  go  where  she  could 
forget  about  it  all  till  the  wound  was  less  raw.  Dr. 
Blanton  who  had  a  habit  of  pastoral  visits  which  must 
have  kept  him  driving  about  all  day,  so  far  as  she 
could  see,  curiously  enough  was  the  only  exception 
to  the  flood  of  reminiscence.  Whether  it  was  that 
he  was  too  absent-minded  to  remember  that  remarks 
about  a  husband  were  the  correct  thing  to  offer  a 
young  wife,  or  that  his  interest  in  his  own  conversa- 
tion, which  was  generally  about  things  he  had  read 
in  books  no  one  else  had  ever  heard  of,  prevented 
him  from  thinking  of  other  people,  Cecilia  could  not 
tell,  but  she  rather  thought  it  was  the  latter.  But 
because  of  his  obliviousness  to  everything  but  imper- 
sonalities, she  began  to  cling  to  him  more  than  she 
knew.  He  called  on  Cousin  Lorena  with  a  frequency 
that  made  Cecilia,  wrapped  as  she  was  in  her  own 
trouble,  begin  to  wonder  if  he  had  "intentions."  But 
she,  Cecilia,  always  found  herself  drifting  down  to 
where  they  sat  with  palm-leaf  fans,  exchanging  bits 
of  amusing  anecdotes,  usually,  one  found,  about  people 
long-dead,  but  still  discussed  with  friendly  laughter 
and  affection. 

The  old  parlor  was  very  dim  and  cool,  and  one 
afternoon  Cecilia  established  herself  in  a  rocker  there 
with  the  baby,  who  seemed  fretful  anywhere  but  out 


ADJUSTMENT  215 

of  her  arms.  He  had  fallen  asleep,  finally,  and  she, 
tired  with  the  sudden  and  unseasonable  heat,  fell 
asleep  too — the  light  sleep  mothers  know,  holding  the 
baby  fast. 

She  was  in  an  alcove,  where  she  could  neither  see 
nor  be  seen.  If  she  rose  she  would  wake  the  baby, 
who  had  not  had  much  sleep  the  night  before.  So 
when  the  low  murmur  of  voices  awoke  her,  she  sat 
where  she  was.  It  was  only  old  Dr.  Blanton,  calling 
as  usual.  Cecilia  smiled  to  herself  in  lazy  amusement. 
Well,  if  he  did  "co't"  Cousin  Lorena,  both  of  them 
would  marry  nice  enough  people.  Kind  people,  if  a 
little — could  one  call  it  remote?  No,  remote  was  not 
the  word  (the  thoughts  glided  sleepily  through  her 
mind,  lulled  to  a  pleasant  daze  by  the  afternoon  sleep) 
for  their  childlike  chattering  interest  in  men  and  girls 
long  buried  or  grandparents.  Dim,  rather.  Like  a 
quaint  old  painting  of  conventionalized  people.  She 
wondered,  as  she  wakened  more,  and  roused  to  her 
wonted  bitterness,  what  either  of  them  would  do  or 
say  if  she  hurled  her  raw  problem  at  them.  Tell  her 
that  people  didn't  do  such  things,  doubtless,  to  quote 
Ibsen — they'd  probably  just  about  heard  of  him,  down 
here.  Well,  she  wouldn't  hurl  it.  It  was  good  to  sit 
here  in  the  shaded  light,  watching  the  glass  drops 
swinging  in  the  light  breeze  from  the  chandelier,  and 
a  stray  waver  of  sunlight  playing  on  the  dulled  gilt 
flowers  of  the  wall-paper:  hearing  the  pleasant,  unhur- 
ried elderly  voices  talking  of  things  which  had  ceased 
to  matter  thirty  years  gone.  If  she  listened  perhaps 


216  ADJUSTMENT 

it  would  keep  her  from  thinking  about  Lawrence  for 
a  little  while. 

"...  No,  my  dear  Miss  Lorena,  for  once  your 
memory  is  at  fault!  It  was  not  Aunt  Jenny  Lou;  she 
was  older.  It  was  Aunt  India." 

"Yes;  I  was  wrong.  They  called  her  the  White 
Rose  of  Germantown,  I  remember  my  mother  saying. 
She  married  a  Pennsylvanian,  if  I  remember  aright. 
It  was  she  who  was  painted  as  Di  Vernon  in  the  Walter 
Scott  album." 

"Yes,  she  was  the  one.  She  was  only  about  ten 
years  older  than  I.  I  can  remember  her,  at  the  close 
of  the  war,  a  very  beautiful  young  woman." 

"Ah,  there  were  knights  in  those  days!"  said  Miss 
Lorena's  gentle  little  thrilled  voice.  "She  was  the 
one.  He  wore  her  glove  pinned  to  his  hat  through 
everything;  and  when  it  was  carried  off  by  a  stray 
shot  he  rode  back  into  the  melee  and  risked  his  life 
to  get  it.  And  he  wasn't  even  one  of  our  own  South- 
ern young  men !  It  is  a  wonderful  story,  Dr.  Blanton. 
I  have  always  loved  it." 

"I  can  remember  when  he  came  back  from  war, 
though."  Dr.  Blanton  was  off  on  one  of  his  inter- 
minable tales.  But  the  thin  old  voice  was  pleasant  in 
Cecilia's  ears,  and  she  listened  idly.  "But  I  don't 
remember  the  glove.  He  came  to  get  her  in  my  grand- 
parents' house,  where  she  had  waited  for  him;  they 
had  just  been  married  before  the  last  year  of  the  war, 
you  know.  I  can  remember  the  excitement;  Aunt 
India  had  been  shopping.  Shopping  was  a  state  matter 


ADJUSTMENT  217 

then.  She  and  grandmother  had  discussed  what  he 
should  see  her  in  first,  by  the  day.  Finally  they 
bought  a  green  silk,  because  he  liked  her  best  in  green; 
and  they  made  it  up.  I  can  see  it  now.  I  think  I  was 
a  bit  jealous  of  Uncle  Jacob;  I  adored  Aunt  India, 
and  I  must  have  tried  to  learn  her  looks  by  heart, 
that  evening  when  they  expected  him.  It  had  white 
lace  low  over  her  shoulders,  and  sprays  of  white  arti- 
ficial roses  catching  it  up  in  loops.  He  had  written 
how  he  longed  to  see  her  in  all  her  silken  beauty. 
That  was  what  he  called  it — silken  beauty.  Good 
heavens,  how  young  he  would  seem  to  me  now!  He 
couldn't  have  been  more  than  twenty-three:  she  was 
a  good  deal  younger  than  that.  Then,  of  course,  he 
seemed  a  thousand  years  old  and  seven  feet  high.  .  .  . 
He  was  tall,  and  very  handsome.  Drooping  mustache 
and  big  dark  eyes;  eyes  like  the  ones  they  had  in  my 
boyhood  seem  to  have  gone  out,  in  men  and  women 
both,  by  the  way.  I  wonder  why." 

"I  have  noticed  that,  too,"  said  Miss  Lorena  inter- 
estedly. "And  gentlemen  never  seem  to  have  color 
nowadays.  I  can  remember  my  brothers;  they  all 
had  such  bright  color.  Gentlemen  did  then." 

"Psycho-analysis  would  doubtless  tell  us,"  said  Dr. 
Blanton  scornfully.  He  did  not  like  it  much.  "Ah, 
well.  She  waited  alone  in  the  parlor  to  meet  him;  and 
he  came  hurrying  in.  And  when  we  heard,  from  the 
sitting-room,  his  voice,  saying  angrily,  'My  God,  how 
do  you  dare  stand  there  in  those  costly  garments,  when 
I've  been  cutting  off  my  boys'  legs  and  arms  while 


218  ADJUSTMENT 

they  shrieked  in  anguish,  for  lack  of  money  to  buy 
them  chloroform!7  And  then  poor  young  Aunt  India 
came  running  in  to  my  grandmother  with  a  look  of 
horror  on  her  face." 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  asked  Miss  Lorena's  awed  voice, 
"How  dreadful — what  was  the  matter?" 

(Cecilia  sat  upright,  her  heart  beating  hard.  She 
wanted  to  go  and  find  that  long  dead  girl,  to  put  her 
arms  around  her  and  tell  her  that  she  too  had  been 
through  the  same  agony  and  disillusion.  ...  It  was 
like  her  own  story.) 

By  the  sound  of  his  voice  Cecilia  could  tell  that 
as  Dr.  Blanton  answered  he  was  smiling. 

"I  can  still  hear  my  grandmother's  voice,"  he  said. 
"She  was  a  good  woman  and  a  strong  one — too  strong, 
I  thought  then,  seeing  her  holding  up  poor  hurt  young 
Aunt  India,  and  holding  her  shoulders  and  talking  to 
her — sharp  and  loud,  as  you  talk  to  some  one  you're 
trying  to  waken  from  a  drug.  'India,'  she  said.  'Just 
hold  on.  Jacob's  come  back  to  you  out  of  the  dark 
ages.  He's  been  at  war,  and  when  men  have  enough 
war  they're  not  civilized  for  awhile,  sometimes.  Here 
he's  back  in  civilized  Germantown,  and  it's  a  jar.  His 
nerves  are  all  wrong:  give  him  time,  and  he'll  be  all 
right  again.  Don't  feel  as  if  he  really  has  sense 
about  it.  Give  him  a  chance  to  adjust  himself  and 
it  will  come  right.' ' 

"Oh,  how  terrible!"  said  Miss  Lorena. 

"Yes  ...  in  a  way  it  was  terrible.  All  things  are 
that  go  with  war.  But  my  grandmother  made  her 


ADJUSTMENT  219 

realize  what  the  matter  was.  Grandfather  had  been 
in  the  Mexican  war,  you  see." 

"Did  it  come  right?"  asked  Miss  Lorena.  "Good- 
ness, I  hope  things  like  that  don't  happen  these 
days  .  .  .  but  they  couldn't,  with  all  the  modern  in- 
ventions." 

".  .  .  But  they  have  sought  out  many  inventions," 
quoted  Dr.  Blanton.  "I  hope  not — often,  my  dear 
Lorena.  Yes  ...  it  was  terribly  hard  for  poor  Aunt 
India  for  awhile,  I  think.  But  she  went  with  him  to 
their  home,  and  I  am  sure  that  things  straightened 
gradually  out.  At  least,  as  I  remember  Uncle  Jacob 
he  was  a  very  kind  man,  and  loved  her  dearly.  They 
were  very  happy  together.  I  can  see  her  now,  in 
the  green  dress.  .  .  ." 

Cecilia  sat  on,  swaying  the  baby  unconsciously. 
He  had  waked,  but  for  a  wonder  was  quiet.  The 
little  rasping  wail  had  fretted  her  more  than  she 
knew;  its  cessation  was  a  relief.  The  old  people  were 
talking  on;  they  had  passed  to  Aunt  Jenny  Lou  now. 

"Dark  ages —  .  .  .  his  nerves  .  .  .  adjustment  .  .  . 
give  him  time  .  .  .  he'll  adjust.  .  .  ." 

And  she  hadn't  known — and  she  hadn't  known! 
Why — Lawrence  wasn't  a  despicable  wretch,  after  all 
— he  was  only  a  sick  man!  And  she  wasn't  a  woman 
whose  marriage  was  a  humiliating  failure:  she'd  simply 
been  ignorant.  Life  mightn't  be  a  shipwreck  after  all. 
Things  had  a  chance  to  come  straight.  And  even  if 
it  was  only  a  fighting  chance,  why — happiness  for  two 
people  was  worth  fighting  for.  She  rose  from  her 


220  ADJUSTMENT 

chair,  her  usually  pale  cheeks  scarlet  with  excitement, 
and  walked  into  the  other  part  of  the  room,  where 
Dr.  Blanton  and  Miss  Lorena  swayed  in  their  rockers, 
talking  on. 

"Cousin  Lorena,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  leave 
Maynard  with  you.  I  think  I  had  better  go  down 
to  Baltimore,  where  Lawrence  is.  Will  you  look  after 
him?" 

After  Cousin  Lorena  had  made  her  fluttered,  yet 
efficient  arrangements,  and  carried  the  baby  upstairs 
with  the  pride  of  a  child  given  a  sacred  trust,  Cecilia 
looked  at  Dr.  Blanton. 

"I  think  that  will  be  a  very  pleasant  thing  to  do, 
my  dear,"  was  all  he  said.  "I'm  sure  you'll  be  glad." 

But  Cecilia  looked  straight  at  him. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  she  said,  "and — thank  you 
for  explaining." 

He  looked  back  at  her  quite  simply,  and  laughed 
his  little  kind,  high  laugh. 

"My  dear,  you  are  a  very  good  and  intelligent 
girl,"  he  said.  "All  you  needed  was  to  know." 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

ONE  month  after  Richard  Maclane  was  invalided 
home  from  his  relief  work  in  Russia — one  month  after 
he  brought  her  the  little  images — he  broke  his  en- 
gagement with  Valla  Harfager. 

It  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  which  was  an  ordinary 
happening  in  that  little  Main  Line  town.  Most  people 
there  were  more  or  less  other  people's  cousins,  or 
at  least  friends  because  their  great  grandfathers  had 
been,  and  therefore  every  one  took  an  interest  in 
things  that  happened.  It  was  felt  that  something 
ought  to  be  done  about  it:  Arden  Garrison,  the  young 
rector,  who  had  been  Richard's  close  friend  before 
he  went  away,  was  supposed  to  have  tried  to  talk  to 
him  about  it.  His  uncle,  Dr.  Blanton,  being  older, 
and  one  of  those  gentle  souls  whom  it  is  difficult  to 
snub,  did.  Even  old  Whitall,  who,  since  he  had  taken 
over  the  mastership  of  the  Green  Valley  Hounds  rarely 
talked  of  much  else,  said  "damn  shame/'  not  only  to 
others,  but  to  Richard  Maclane  himself.  As  for 
Richard,  his  face  was  more  and  more  haggard,  and  he 
avoided  An  drey  Kerkoff,  naturally,  but  he  went  des- 
perately on  his  way.  Some  of  the  younger  men  said 
that  they  might  have  done  the  same  thing.  But  it 
was  an  inexcusable  thing  from  most  viewpoints.  He 

221 


222       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

and  Valla  had  been  friends  and  lovers  since  childhood* 
Valla  was  beautiful,  good  and  charming. 

It  was  because  of  that  little  devil  of  a  Mary  Bel- 
lamy, of  course.  He  had  the  grace  to  be  honest  with 
Valla  about  that:  though,  indeed,  it  was  hard  to  be 
otherwise  than  honest  with  Valla  at  any  time.  She  was 
like  that;  still,  strong,  quiet,  like  Brunhild  to  look  at, 
broad-shouldered,  long-limbed,  and  crowned  with  yel- 
low hair.  The  Harfagers  had  been  Norse  before  they 
had  been  English,  though  they  had  been  English  for 
some  centuries  before  they  became  Quakers  and  left 
with  Penn  for  America.  The  thousand-year-old  Norse 
strain  showed  strongly  in  them  still.  Valla  was  named, 
indeed,  for  one  of  these  Valas — Wise  Women — whom 
their  tradition  said  had  come  from  Norway  as  some 
wild  chief's  counselor.  According  to  the  tradition 
there  had  been  more  than  one  of  these  Valas;  the 
prophetess  strain  had  come  down  from  mother  to 
daughter,  woman  after  yellow-haired,  white-armed 
woman  who  had  ridden  by  their  chiefs  in  battle  and 
prophesied  to  them  in  peace.  She  was  like  what  they 
must  have  been.  You  could  not  think  of  her  as  being 
broken  like  other  women,  even  by  a  grief  like  this. 

Perhaps  that  was  the  trouble.  If  she  could  have 
let  go  and  have  wept  and  shuddered  and  implored, 
Richard  might,  even  in  his  overwrought  state,  have 
dragged  himself  free  of  Mary's  feverish,  heady  fasci- 
nations, and  been  held  steady  by  the  deep  old  things 
between  him  and  Valla.  But  back  of  Valla  were  eleven 
generations  of  Friends,  with  their  tradition  of  repres- 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       223 

sion.  He  had  no  way  of  knowing,  as  she  sat  facing 
him  with  steady  eyes  on  his,  and  a  face  that  only 
whitened,  did  not  change,  that  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
going  through  a  hard  death.  He  believed,  as  many 
people  who  should  know  better  believe,  that  to  be 
a  Friend  is  to  have  less  capacity  for  emotion  than 
the  normal  man  or  woman.  And  yet  in  those  eleven 
generations  because  of  whom  Valla  Harfager  came 
to  sit  unshakenly  before  her  immeasurable  grief,  there 
had  been  people  who  had  done  strange  things  because 
of  a  feeling  in  their  heart.  There  had  been  prophet- 
esses, yellow-haired,  white-armed  women  of  great 
houses,  who  had  gone  out  to  cry  to  the  rabble  of 
doom  that  should  fall  on  them,  because  of  the  white 
fire  in  their  hearts:  who  had  let  themselves  be  torn 
to  pieces,  smiling,  when  the  doom  fell.  There  had 
been  gentlefolk  born  to  lordship,  who  had  wandered 
starving  in  desolate  places  for  their  belief's  sake. 
There  had  been  gray-eyed  girls,  almost  children,  of 
whom  it  was  told  that  they  had  been  taken  from  their 
mothers  to  be  scourged  through  cruel  New  England 
towns:  girls  who  had  gone  to  hard  deaths  unmoved 
because  of  what  they  could  see  apportioned  by  God 
to  their  judges. 

Valla,  as  she  sat  staring  ahead  of  her  at  the  little 
images  Richard  had  given  her,  might  have  been  one 
of  those  long  dead,  doom-bringing  women.  But 
Richard  only  saw  her  quietude,  and  heard  the  height 
of  love  and  selflessness  that  was,  as  always,  in  her 
answer.  It  was  a  strange  answer  for  a  woman  to 


224       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

make,  if  she  had  not  had  the  naked  honesty  of  the 
Friends  in  her  tradition  and  very  fiber.  A  man  less 
jaded  and  overworn  would  have  felt  the  terrific  power 
of  her;  but  Richard  was  too  wearied  with  all  he  had 
gone  through  to  be  touched  by  anything  less  overt 
than  the  whiplike  stimulation  of  young  Mary  Bellamy's 
barren  vividness  and  bright  insolences.  Mary  was 
what  the  whole  world  had  been  in  the  years  while  she 
reached  girlhood;  living  at  fever-heat  always,  mad  for 
the  love  and  excitement  of  the  moment.  So  he  heard 
Valla  untouched  save  by  a  feeling  of  guiltiness  which 
was  not  strong  enough  to  keep  him  from  his  desires. 

"Of  course  I  will  release  you,  Richard,"  was  what 
Valla  said  steadily.  "That  is,  as  far  as  you  and  I 
have  anything  to  do  with  it.  It  is  borne  in  on  me, 
as  things  have  sometimes  been  on  people  of  my  faith, 
that  we  belong  with  each  other,  and  nothing  you  can 
think  you  wish,  or  I  can  grant,  can  really  free  us 
from  one  another,  and  that  you  will  know  it  one  day. 
I  shall  always  belong  to  you.  If  you  can  belong  to 
another  woman,  you  are  as  far  free  as  I  can  make 
you  free." 

The  utter  steadiness  and  utter  love  in  her  voice 
went  all  through  him.  For  a  moment  he  felt  con- 
sciously the  current  of  her  power.  Then  another 
spell  came  back,  the  physical  pull  of  Mary  Bellamy's 
strong  little  bold  hands  and  scarlet  provocative  lips 
and  sweeping,  insolent  gaiety.  He  never  remembered 
how  the  scene  ended;  only  that  presently  he  was  gone, 
still  hungry  to  be  with  Mary  as  a  drunkard  is  hungry 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       225 

for  brandy,  but  with  a  hurting  picture  of  Valla  un- 
shakably  present  to  him;  Valla,  as  he  had  seen  her 
for  one  betraying  moment  after  she  thought  he  had 
gone,  flung  to  her  full  height,  her  arms  tossed  above 
her  head  and  her  gray  eyes  as  unseeing  as  her  lips 
were  drawn. 

Of  Valla,  a  moment  later,  bowed  head  on  her  tall 
mantel,  with  her  outstretched  hands  unconsciously 
clenching  the  little  images  that  were  set  at  its  ends, 
his  last  gift  to  her — the  Little  Queens  of  Death. 

He  did  not  know  their  names,  or  call  them  so  to 
himself  then,  as  he  went  away  wretchedly  to  Mary 
Bellamy.  It  was  Andrey  Kerkoff,  weeks  later,  who 
named  them  so  to  Valla;  who  named  them  so  months 
later  to  more  than  Valla. 

He  was  an  exotic  personality  for  that  little  quietly 
proud  and  provincial  Pennsylvania  town;  more  exotic 
than  Mary  Bellamy.  The  girls  who  were  jealous  of 
her  said  that  the  whole  tangle  was  the  sort  of  thing 
Mary  enjoyed,  for  her  vanity's  sake,  more  than  any- 
thing in  the  world;  that  if  Kerkoff  had  not  come 
there  because  he  was  Richard's  friend,  and  she  had 
not  been  engaged  to  him,  the  taking  of  Richard  would 
not  have  amused  her  half  so  much,  or  been  half  so 
worth  while.  He  had  escaped  from  Russia,  after  suf- 
fering things  that  the  normal  Americans  about  him  felt 
secretly  were  rather  indecent  to  have  done  to  you — 
too  like  the  melodrama  which  normal  people  forget 
is  as  real  as  normality.  Richard,  with  that  impulsive 
generosity  and  lovableness  of  his,  had  financed  Ker- 


226       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

koff,  helped  him  away,  accredited  him  to  friends  in 
his  own  town,  and  even  taken  him  to  live  in  his 
house  after  his  own  return.  Richard  was  his  only 
tie  in  America. 

In  the  two  months  he  preceded  Richard,  he  had 
been  fascinated  by  Mary,  and  she  had  promised  to 
marry  him.  There  was  something  in  the  girl,  young 
as  she  was — only  seventeen,  for  all  her  decadence — 
that  drew  and  was  drawn  by  the  overwrought,  the 
abnormal.  When  she  first  met  Kerkoff  her  court  of 
college  lads  had  been  flung  to  the  winds.  To  be  sure 
Kerkoff,  with  his  tall,  drilled  slimness  and  his  slanting 
green  eyes  below  a  mop  of  curly  hair,  not  to  speak 
of  his  Guardsman  manners,  had  moved  most  of  her 
friends  the  same  way.  But  the  obvious  nerve-shat- 
teredness  of  him,  the  curious  little  jerky  or  tragic 
words  and  ways  that  had  peeped  out  after  the  first,  had 
repelled  most  of  the  other  girls.  He  was  "queer." 
Mary  apparently  had  liked  him  for  it,  and  the  engage- 
ment was  a  fact  accomplished  when  Richard  came 
back.  The  fact  that  Kerkoff  took  everything  harder 
than  most  men,  had  been  through  enough  tragedy  for 
two  lifetimes  already,  and  had  pinned  every  bit  of 
hope  and  faith  and  belief  he  had  left  to  her  and  Rich- 
ard, may  not  have  occurred  to  her,  or  simply  may 
not  have  mattered  if  it  did.  She  thrust  her  greedy 
little  baby-vamp  hands  deep  into  the  web  of  things 
and  was  apparently  rather  amused  at  the  horrible 
crash  and  tangle  she  made.  Richard  was  too  blind- 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH        227 

drunk  with  her  to  know  very  much  but  that  she  was 
his  and  he  could  marry  her.  He  may  have  been  the 
only  man  in  the  place  who  did  not  know  that  she  had 
finished  the  wrecking  of  Andrey  Kerkoff,  horribly, 
spectacularly.  It  was  rather  unfair  that  the  town  at 
large  was  angrier  at  Mary  on  Valla's  account  than 
on  Audrey's,  for  certainly  Andrey  was  broken  to  bits, 
and  Valla,  for  all  the  world  could  see,  went  steadily 
on  her  way. 

And  then  the  wildest  thing  of  all  came  to  be  known. 
It  is  a  tribute  to  the  esteem  her  world  held  Valla  in 
that  nobody  thought  it  in  the  least  amusing.  Only 
very  superb  on  Valla's  part  and  a  little  contemptible 
— if  piteous — in  Andrey's.  Andrey  Kerkoff  spent 
practically  every  moment  of  his  time  with  Valla  Har- 
fager. 

It  could  not  have  been  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  for  Valla  to  have  him  walking  up  and  down 
her  floor,  raving  about  Mary.  It  must  have  been  an 
added  turn  of  the  screw  for  her  to  hear  about  the 
other  girl's  unforgettable  power  and  searing  charm 
and  wonderful  kisses,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  details 
poor  Kerkoff's  sick,  love-hungry  lips  poured  out  by 
the  hour.  He  was  as  past  reserve  as  a  man  in  delirium. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  why  do  you  let  that  dreadful  man 
come,  and  talk  to  you  about  things  you'd  better  for- 
get?" begged  her  mother,  coming  on  Valla  after  one 
of  these  visits.  The  girl  was  lying  back  in  her  chair, 
just  as  Kerkoff  had  left  her.  She  was  quiet,  as  always; 


228       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

but  there  were  rings  of  exhaustion  around  her  eyes, 
and  her  strong  white  hands  lay  laxly  on  the  mahog- 
any arms. 

"I  have  a  good  deal  of  strength,  and  he  has  very 
little,"  said  Valla's  drawn  lips.  "If  he  did  not  have 
the  relief  of  talking  of  it  he  might  do  something  very 
wrong." 

"You  will  have  nono  too  much  if  you  keep  on  this 
way,"  said  her  mother.  She  was  not  herself  of  Quaker 
stock,  but  a  pretty,  demonstrative  woman  who  laughed 
when  she  was  happy,  and  cried  out  when  she  was  hurt, 
and  could  never  quite  understand  her  husband  and 
daughter. 

Valla  lifted  herself  in  the  chair,  and  seemed  to  drag 
her  eyes  away  to  look  at  her  mother.  She  had  been 
staring  unseeingly  at  the  little  images  Richard  had 
given  her. 

"It's  all  I  can  do,"  she  said  simply.  "Richard  is 
shaken  and  unlike  himself,  and  wrecked  by  the  dread- 
ful war-things:  but  they  have  wrenched  him  so  far 
away  from  me  that  I  cannot  help  him — yet.  I  can  help 
this  poor  soul.  It  is  the  nearest  I  can  come  to  doing 
something  for  Richard." 

Her  eyes  went  again  to  the  little  images. 

They  were  heavily  built  little  women  carved  of  some 
dark  wood,  that  had  become  darker  by  time.  The 
carving  was  clumsy,  like  a  child's:  the  painted  eyes 
stared,  and  the  thick  lips,  still  faintly  reddened,  were 
set  cruelly.  They  were  not  quite  alike:  one  would 
say  sisters.  On  each  of  the  heads  sat  a  crown,  the 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       229 

sort  of  crown  chess-queens  have:  their  arms  were 
clenched  back  of  them  at  their  sides,  as  if  on  some 
invisible  thing  that  nothing  could  let  go.  They  had 
stiff,  flaring  wooden  skirts.  Except  the  crowns,  there 
was  no  other  semblance  of  ornament,  but  around  their 
waists  and  wrists  and  shoulders  were  grooves,  as  if 
there  had  once  been  something  there.  Something — 
a  breast-ornament  perhaps — had  been  on  the  flat 
naked  chests,  painted  a  curious  pied  color:  across 
half  both  sullen  faces  and  arms  were  traces  of  dull 
blue.  The  rest  might  have  been  flesh  color  once  on 
a  time.  They  were  grotesque,  yet  with  all  their  clum- 
siness not  laughable;  sinister,  somehow.  A  strange 
thing  to  bring  home  a  girl  from  abroad;  but  Valla 
seemed  to  have  had  a  strange  fancy  to  them,  from  the 
first. 

"You  aren't  taking  this  like  a  normal  girl.  In 
your  place  I  should  throw  those  hideous  little  dolls 
out  of  the  window,  say  Richard  was  a  good  riddance, 
and  come  to  Canada.  You  know  we've  been  planning 
the  trip  for  ages.  Come,  dearest,  take  mother's 
advice." 

As  Mrs.  Harfager  spoke  she  gave  a  vicious  push  to 
the  nearest  of  the  images.  Valla  put  out  a  swift  hand 
to  steady  it. 

"You  mustn't  touch  them.  He  gave  them  to  me, 
when  everything  was  still  right.  .  .  .  When  I  look  at 
them,  it  seems  somehow  as  if  everything  were  still  right 
underneath.  I  suppose  they  take  me  back.  ..."  She 
smiled  a  little  and  began  playing  with  them  absently 


230       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

where  she  stood  by  the  mantel,  clasping  her  bracelets 
around  the  grooves  in  the  stiff  waists,  where  something 
seemed  to  have  once  been.  "Even  if  they  weren't 
from  him,  I  believe  I  would  love  them.  Haven't  you 
ever  come  across  things,  mother,  or  places,  that  made 
you  feel  as  if  they  had  always  been  yours,  and  always 
would  be — as  if  they  were  what  you  needed  to  make 
you  complete?" 

She  spoke  dreamily,  still  holding  the  images. 

"I  never  have,"  said  her  mother,  the  more  sharply 
that  she  was  unhappy  about  her  daughter.  "And  I 
certainly  could  not  begin  on  those  hideous  things." 

She  gave  her  daughter  a  half -loving,  half -angry 
little  shake,  and  went  hurriedly  out.  As  she  did  the 
nearest  of  the  images,  jarred,  perhaps,  by  her  step, 
fell  from  its  corner  and  struck  her  shoulder  sharply 
with  its  base. 

"Hateful  thing!"  said  the  mother;  but  she  picked 
it  up,  with  a  good  housewife's  instinct,  and  replaced  it. 
She  went  away  then.  Valla  stayed  on  where  she  was. 
But  when  she  came  out,  an  hour  later,  she  looked  so 
bright  and  well  that  her  mother  commented  on  it.  She 
said  she  had  been  asleep. 

She  forgot  to  remove  the  bracelets  from  the  Little 
Queens,  or  perhaps  she  did  not  want  to.  And  Ker- 
koff,  prowling  up  and  down  the  room  as  was  his  habit, 
noticed  them,  for  the  first  time,  when  he  came  next 
to  haunt  her.  He  was  looking  worse,  febrile  and 
haggard.  But  she  thought  it  was  a  good  sign  that  he 
could  notice  something  outside  himself.  He  talked 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH        231 

fragmentarily  of  Mary  Bellamy.  He  had  been  walk- 
ing up  and  down  outside  her  house.  He  began  to  tell 
Valla  how  he  had  seen  her,  love-making  with  Richard, 
night  after  night. 

"There's  a  little  hole  in  their  shade,"  he  said  with 
a  short  wild  laugh.  "I  can  see.  For  three  hours  last 
night—" 

She  stopped  him.  There  are  limits  to  every  one's 
endurance. 

"You  must  go  away,"  she  said,  as  her  mother  had 
said  to  her.  "You  are  driving  yourself  mad." 

"No.  I  cannot."  He  whirled  on  her,  carrying  the 
war  into  the  enemy's  country.  "You  do  not  go.  Why? 
I  do  not  ask,  for  I  know.  You  are  held  here  because 
of  that  man,  who  was  cruel  to  you  because  he  is 
chained  to  Mary,  as  I  am  chained.  Only  you  are 
stronger,  for  some  reason  I  cannot  guess.  ...  I  am 
held  by  Mary.  I  hate  her  as  much  as  I  love  her.  Who 
knows  what  is  love  and  what  is  hate?  They  are  two 
pieces  of  one  thing.  I  lie  awake  at  night,  fancying 
her  lying  in  my  arms,  kissing  me  and  saying  she 
loves  me.  And  then  I  fancy  her  lying  dead,  at  other 
times,  never  to  belong  to  any  one  again.  I  do  not 
know  which  gives  me  the  most  comfort." 

She  bent  over  him,  one  strong  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der, where  he  had  sunk  down  by  a  couch,  his  head 
in  his  hands. 

"You  must  stop  having  those  feelings,"  she  told 
him.  "They  are  worse  for  you  than  for  Mary.  It 
is  true  I  stay  here.  But  it  is  because  I  am  one  of 


232       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

the  women  who  loves  always,  having  once  given  love. 
I  do  not  hate  Richard.  I  love  him  so  much  that  I 
know  all  this  is  unreal,  passing;  that  my  power  of 
love  will  draw  him  back  to  me,  and  all  this  be  as  if 
it  had  never  been.  You  must  do  this  too.  Wait  for 
that  time.  Love  makes  things,  where  hate  breaks  them 
in  pieces," 

He  looked  up  at  her — the  half-terrified,  half-fierce 
look  of  an  animal. 

"Tell  me,  you  who  are  so  strong,  so  powerful—- 
ah, yes,  it  is  true  what  you  say,  however  the  power 
came — what  do  you  want  of  Mary,  how  do  you  feel 
to  Mary?" 

She  answered  him  with  her  strange  frankness,  her 
eyes  falling  into  their  old  unseeingness. 

"I  cannot  tell.  I  do  not  know.  She  does  not  seem 
to  me  like  a  person,  to  be  hated.  Only  a  dreadfulness 
that  has  done  something  to  my  Richard.  Something 
that  will  pass — something  that  will  be  gone.  .  .  ." 

Andrey  shuddered,  looking  up  at  her  fascinatedly. 

"It  is  worse  than  what  I  feel  for  her.  .  .  .  My  God, 
why  have  I  turned  to  you  for  help,  you — " 

He  stopped  short,  staring  as  if  he  saw  something 
terrifying  behind  her.  Then  he  began  to  laugh. 

"So — it  is  no  wonder  you  are  strong,  with  these  for 
counselors!  Oh,  you  are  very  strong  and  very  clever! 
You  speak  of  love  and  forgiveness,  and — you  stay 
here  with  these" 

He  pointed  to  the  mantel. 

"You  are  talking  wildly,"  she  said,  looking  down 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       233V 

into  his  eyes.  "I  keep  those — Richard  gave  them 
to  me.  That  is  all." 

He  shivered  a  little,  and  dropped  his  head  sub- 
missively. 

"Yes.  I  am  talking  wildly,  I  suppose.  But  we  be- 
lieve in  such  things,  at  home — at  what  was  once  home. 
An  evil  icon  will  do  more  than  a  good  one,  and  more 
powerful  than  any  are  the  Little  Queens  of  Death. 
But  after  all  you  are  not  of  Rurik's  race." 

She  spoke  to  him  soothingly. 

"No.  No  indeed.  We  are  Norse,  far  back,  we  Har- 
fagers.  My  ancestresses,  they  say,  were  Valas,  Norse 
wise  women,  from  grandmother  to  granddaughter. 
Never  Russians  at  all." 

He  sat  back  on  his  haunches,  a  half-grotesque, 
clutching  figure.  He  began  to  laugh  a  little,  softly. 

"He  brought  it  on  himself,  he  made  you  the  gift: 
and  you  are  of  the  same  blood  as  of  Rurik — Rurik 
the  Norseman!  I  know  now  where  I  have  seen 
you.  .  .  .  No,  I  am  not  going  mad.  It  is  not  mad- 
ness, is  it,  to  remember  a  fresco  that  was  like  you, 
in  the  Russian  city  that  was  a  capital  in  Rurik's  day? 
It  was  in  a  palace,  on  a  wall.  It  was  you — on  a  great 
white  horse.  Your  yellow  hair  was  in  two  sheaves 
bound  with  gold  straps.  On  either  side  of  your  horse's 
head-stall  stood  one  of  the  little  Queens  of  Death." 

Valla  looked  at  him,  rapt. 

"You  mean— these?" 

"These.  They  were  the  little  goddesses  of  Rurik; 
carved  by  some  Russian  slave,  it  may  be,  but  set 


234       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

always  on  the  head-stalls  when  his  women  counselors 
rode  into  battle  with  him.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  women 
counselors,  beautiful  and  young,  like  you,  with  sheaves 
of  yellow  hair.  Wise  and  chaste  they  were,  and  strong 
like  men.  And  they  had  hands  which  could  beckon 
the  Little  Queens  of  Death  to  send  hell  and  ven- 
geance on  their  enemies.  .  .  .  Even  now  the  stories 
are  told  in  the  old  babouschas'  huts  at  night.  It  was 
not  well  to  come  between  the  Counselors  and  their 
desires,  my  own  nurse  told  me.  .  .  .  Hell  and  venge- 
ance .  .  .  you  can  afford  to  talk  to  me  with  your 
lips  of  love  and  forgiveness,  you  who  are,  after  all 
the  centuries,  still  taking  counsel  with  your  Little 
Queens  of  Death!" 

He  was  in  a  pitiable  state,  for  all  his  effort  to  be 
quiet.  Valla  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  again, 
and  looked  steadily  into  his  eyes. 

"You  are  losing  control  over  yourself,"  she  said 
steadily.  "You  must  stop  talking  and  get  hold  of 
yourself.  You  must  obey  me.  Be  quiet,  Andrey." 

He  gradually  relaxed  under  her  hand.  His  lips 
closed  firmly,  and  his  face  set.  Then  he  crumpled 
to  the  floor,  and  lay  there  with  his  eyes  shut.  He 
struggled  for  a  little,  then  lay  quietly,  as  if  asleep. 
She  looked  at  him,  wondering.  It  might  have  been 
a  sudden  swoon  from  nervous  exhaustion.  But  it 
seemed  more  like  sleep,  and  she  decided  not  to  try 
to  wake  him.  She  lifted  him  in  her  arms,  for  she  was 
very  strong,  and  laid  him  on  a  couch,  standing  over 
him,  watching  him. 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH        235 

He  opened  his  eyes  presently.  He  looked  at  her 
without  surprise,  and  spoke  in  a  monotone. 

"I  am  losing  control  over  myself.  I  must  stop 
talking  and  get  hold  of  myself.  I  must  obey  you." 

She  did  not  like  his  voice.  It  did  not  sound  natural. 
But  she  answered  him  gently,  as  if  nothing  were  amiss: 

"You  are  wearing  me  out,  Andrey.  Don't  you  real- 
ize that  all  this  is  very  hard  on  me?  Won't  you  try 
to  control  yourself,  as  I  am  doing?" 

"I  must  do  what  you  say,  I  have  no  choice,"  he 
said  dully.    "Only  do  not — do  not — " 

She  looked  down  at  him,  puzzled.  He  had  buried 
his  face  in  the  pillows.  Presently  he  looked  up.  There 
was  the  humble  appeal  of  a  dog  in  his  face. 

"I  have  always  loved  Mary  so,  since  I  have  seen 
her.  I  have  loved  all  men.  Oh,  do  not — do  not — " 

He  was  moaning  as  if  some  terrible  thing  hung 
over  him.  She  spoke  to  him  sharply,  all  the  more 
that  she  felt  half-tranced  herself  by  this  time. 

"Go  now,  Andrey.  And  do  as  I  tell  you  about 
going  away.  I  will  go  myself  if  you  will.  When  we 
come  back  we  will  both  feel  better  about  it  all." 

He  rose  stiffly,  obediently,  as  if  she  were  his  supe- 
rior officer. 

"I  am  losing  control  over  myself.  I  must  stop 
talking  and  get  hold  of  myself.  I  must  .  .  .  obey 
you."  He  repeated  the  words  once  more  monoto- 
nously. He  turned  to  the  little  images,  and  went  on 
talking  in  a  low  voice,  under  his  breath.  "Grief  is 
her  hall,  Famine  her  table,  Shrieking  is  her  shelter. 


236       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

But  she  is  Death  and  Vengeance  is  her  sister,  and 
for  golden  gifts  they  will  be  kind  to  the  Counselors." 

It  was  the  Edda  of  Snorro  Sturleson.  But  it  was 
not  all  as  Valla  recalled  it. 

"Where  did  you  hear  that?"  she  asked  him  sharply. 

"It  is  part  of  an  old  song,  one  of  the  songs  of 
Rurik's  people.  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  what  he  was  say- 
ing dazedly,  and  pushed  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 
He  walked  stiffly  out  of  the  room.  It  did  not  occur 
to  Valla  until  later,  talking  it  over,  that  unconsciously 
she  might  have  sent  him,  in  his  shaken  state,  into  a 
short  hypnotic  sleep. 

She  spoke  of  the  thing  reluctantly.  It  was  always 
hard  for  Valla  to  speak  of  intimate  things  to  any  one, 
even  to  kind,  absent-minded  old  Dr.  Blanton,  who 
never  seemed  surprised  or  shocked  at  anything  but 
misprints,  or  persons  who  laid  books  down  on  their 
faces.  And  it  was  doubly  hard  for  her  to  speak  of 
the  Little  Queens  of  Death,  with  all  they  meant  to  her. 
But  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  to  do  it  if  she 
meant  to  go  on  helping  poor  Andrey.  And  she  knew 
Doctor  Blanton  could  tell  her,  if  any  one  could,  about 
the  little  images.  Surely  he  could  show  her,  if  any 
one  could,  how  to  convince  Andrey  that  his  dreams 
about  the  Little  Queens,  and  her  link  with  them,  was 
a  very  wild  thing. 

She  called  up  the  rectory.  She  wanted  to  ask  Dr. 
Blanton  something  about  folklore,  she  said.  Mrs. 
Garrison  answered:  yes,  Uncle  Andrew  hadn't  gone 
home  yet.  Surely  she  could  see  him:  she  knew  he 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       237 

would  love  to  see  Valla.  There  was  a  particularly 
warm  note  in  Elisabeth  Garrison's  voice.  Everybody 
wanted  to  be  as  good  to  Valla  Harfager  just  now  as 
they  possibly  could  be. 

Valla  winced  a  little  under  this  knowledge;  but  after 
all,  it  was  a  small  thing  beside  the  greater  thing  she 
was  going  through.  She  took  the  little  images  and 
drove  to  the  rectory,  where  Dr.  Blanton  was  waiting 
in  his  nephew's  library  for  her. 

"Want  a  few  folklore  points  from  the  old  man?"  he 
asked  amiably  as  she  came  in.  He  peered  at  her  over 
his  glasses.  "Arden  has  a  habit  of  relying  on  public 
libraries  which  I  deprecate.  And  I'm  several  miles 
from  what  really,  my  dear  Miss  Valla,  isn't  a  bad  col- 
lection of  ethnology.  .  .  .  Now  if  I'd  only  brought  that 
set  of  Grimm's  Deutsche  Mythologik  in  my  trunk  .  .  . 
one  shouldn't  be  overridden  by  housekeepers  as  I  re- 
grettably allow  myself  to  be." 

Valla  could  not  help  smiling  a  little,  tense  as  she 
was.  She  set  the  little  images  down  on  the  table 
between  them,  and  told  him  about  poor  Andrey  Ker- 
koff' s  wild  words. 

"If  I  could  prove  to  him  it  was  all  nonsense — "  she 
ended. 

But  the  old  clergyman  settled  his  thick  glasses  more 
closely,  and  lifted  first  one  of  the  little  ugly  images, 
then  the  other.  ...  He  touched  the  grooved  breast 
lightly. 

"It's  true  what  he  says — or  most  of  it,"  he  said 
slowly. 

She  stared  at  him. 


238       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

"True?" 

"Rurik  was  as  much  a  Norseman  as  any  of  your 
ancestors.  Did  you  never  know  that,  my  dear?" 

"No." 

"The  rest  is  interesting;  extremely  interesting!" 
went  on  Dr.  Blanton  enthusiastically.  "The  legend 
of  the  Valas  who  were  with  him,  being  kept  alive  all 
this  time  by  Russian  peasants — my  dear  child,  I  really 
must  write  to  the  Folk-Lore  Society  about  that! — and 
the  fresco  you  speak  of  on  the  wall.  .  .  .  Certainly  I 
believe  it.  I  believe  very  strongly  in  folk-legends, 
myself.  The  tales  may  be  warped  or  misunderstood 
in  transmission,  but  there  is  always  something  ra- 
tional behind  them.  Moreover,  your  images  are  Helas, 
most  certainly,  the  death  goddess  of  Norse  mythology. 
See  the  bodies,  one  half  blue  and  one  half  life  color? 
That  is  an  unmistakable  proof.  Duplication  of  a  god 
or  goddess  is  common  enough." 

"She  was  Death  and  her  sister  was  Vengeance.  He 
said  that,"  Valla  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"The  attributes  have  been  made  separate  god- 
desses,'' Dr.  Blanton  explained,  his  face  lighting  with 
scientific  interest.  "And  so  Rurik's  Valas  rode  into 
battle  with  these  death-goddesses  on  their  horses'  head- 
stalls? Of  course.  .  .  .  They  would  be  a  great  help 
in  bringing  down  death  and  vengeance  on  one's  ene- 
mies. They  would  have  some  of  the  power,  perhaps 
all  the  power  of  the  original  goddess.  .  .  .  You  know, 
my  dear,"  he  went  on,  interested  in  his  subject,  "it  is 
really  possible  that  the  focusing  of  thought  and  be- 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       239 

lief  on  visible  representations  like  these  might  have 
an  actual  effect.  We  are  coming  back  in  this  genera- 
tion more  and  more  to  the  belief  in  the  physical 
power  of  mental  things.  The  war  broke  down  many 
of  our  inhibitions  in  that  respect.  God  and  the  devil 
have  both  been  closer,  since,  to  the  generality  of 
people." 

She  interrupted  him  with  what  was  almost  a  cry. 
She  had  clutched  the  images  again. 

"Oh,  so  many  terrible  old  Powers  have  been  loosed 
since  then!  I  am  afraid — I  am  afraid!  They 
have  always  hated  the  white  Christ.  And  all  the 
fumes  of  blood  have  given  them  strength  again." 

She  spoke  in  a  half  chant,  with  dilated  eyes. 

Dr.  Blanton  nodded  gravely.  "Of  course.  That 
is,  setting  aside  the  spiritual  side  of  it,  the  basic  idea 
of  all  sacrifices.  Valla,  my  dear,  let  me  urge  you  to 
destroy — no — no,  I  cannot  ask  that — but  at  least  give 
away  these  images.  Some  museum  would  be  glad  to 
have  them;  and  I  am  assured  from  what  I  have  seen 
of  you  and  them  that  you  are  in  danger  of  having 
other  gods  beside  the  God  of  the  Christians,  if  you 
keep  them.  Give  them  away.  They  can  give  you  too 
much  help!1 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  She  was  staring 
wide-eyed  at  the  Little  Queens.  She  rose  slowly  to 
her  feet,  still  staring  before  her.  She  lifted  her  arms 
slowly  above  her  head,  her  eyes  set  and  her  lips  apart. 
She  was  ghastly  white,  and  quite  certainly  knew  noth- 
ing of  what  was  going  on  about  her.  Her  whole  being 


240       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

was    concentrated    on    the    images    lifted    over    her 
head. 

"It  was  exactly  as  I  have  seen  other  Quakeresses 
in  Meeting,  when  they  were  moved  by  the  spirit,"  Dr. 
Blanton  told  her  mother  afterward,  using  the  Quaker 
phrase.  "That  was  why  I  was  not  more  alarmed.  It 
is  a  well-defined  type  of  ecstasy." 

But  her  mother  was  not  to  be  appeased.  The  girl 
had  not  come  to  for  hours.  The  hypotheses — that, 
being  worn  out  by  what  she  had  gone  through,  the  idea 
that  she  had  unwittingly  hypnotized  Kerkoff  had  had  a 
reflex  action  on  her — and  the  other,  that  it  was  more 
or  less  the  same  mental  state  as  the  well-known 
Quaker  "Moving  of  the  Spirit,"  did  not  seem  to  her 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  question.  She  swept 
Valla  away  with  her  to  Canada.  Kerkoff  left  on  the 
same  day,  she  heard  afterward,  but  nevertheless  she 
was  glad  she  had  carried  off  her  daughter,  even 
though  Valla  had  come  out  of  her  state  of  trance,  or 
whatever  it  was,  apparently  more  full  of  strength  and 
life  and  vigor  than  ever. 

Mrs.  Harfager  would  have  been  glad  to  keep  Valla 
away  till  Richard's  marriage  was  an  accomplished  fact. 
But  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  stay  away  from  home 
so  long,  herself,  and  Valla  reassured  her. 

"I  cannot  care  about  any  of  it  as  you  think  I  do," 
she  said.  "I  have  an  assurance — "  she  smiled  a  little 
as  she  quoted  the  old  Quaker  phrase — "that  it  will  be 
all  right  for  me,  finally." 

Indeed,  Valla  had  never  seemed  so  strong,  so  certain 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       241 

of  herself,  so  alight  with  that  strange  inner  glow  of 
power,  as  she  was  now.  So  they  returned.  If  her 
mother  had  not  known  Valla's  crystalline  truth  beyond 
a  doubt,  she  would  have  thought  her  daughter  had  com- 
municated in  some  way  with  Kerkoff .  For  he  returned, 
as  he  had  gone,  on  the  same  day  they  did.  Not  strong 
and  alight,  like  Valla.  He  seemed  more  racked,  more 
shaken  and  unhappy,  than  ever.  He  was  as  thin  and 
drawn  as  if  he  had  been  starved,  or  tortured.  He  had1 
the  look  of  a  tortured  man.  But  he  came  to  see  Valla 
no  more. 

Mary  Bellamy  did  the  final  outrageous  thing  when 
Valla  came  back.  She  demanded  her  for  a  brides- 
maid. .  .  .  Outrageous,  yet  very  clever,  for  if  Valla 
refused  she  would  be  no  worse  off,  and  if  she  accepted 
she  publicly  forgave,  and  then  who  else  in  the  town 
could  visit  Mary's  and  Richard's  wrong-doing  on 
them?  And  Valla  accepted. 

The  other  girls  of  the  town,  more  her  friends,  far, 
than  Mary's,  talked  it  over,  naturally.  It  was  the 
sort  of  wonderful  forgiveness  that  only  a  woman  with 
Quaker  self-control  could  show.  It  made  them  shiver 
a  little,  to  think  of  her  being  such  a  saint.  Only 
Nancy  Whitall  shook  her  head.  Her  mother  had  come 
from  up  Lancaster  way,  where  the  old  folk-lore  of 
the  Palatinate  still  holds  its  children  to  their  far-trav- 
eled deaths.  She  made  a  curious  little  sign  with  one 
ringed,  tennis-tanned  hand.  Another  of  them  looked 
at  her,  startled.  She  was  a  free-spoken  girl,  Jennifer 
Wharton.  "Hex?"  she  said,  using  the  patois  word  that 


242       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

the  men  and  women  of  the  back  country  still  shiver  at. 
"Do  you  mean  Mary  Bellamy?  Nonsense.  She  simply 
goes  farther  to  get  what  she  wants  than  most  decent 
people.  That's  not  hexry" 

Nancy  shook  her  short  fluff  of  dark  hair. 

"I  don't  mean  Mary.  I  was  thinking — even  if  I 
didn't  love  her — I  wouldn't  hurt  Valla  Harfager.  And 
I  was  thinking  of  two  things.  One  was  old  Valah 
Wynne." 

"She  wasn't  hex,  any  more  than  this  Valla  is.  She 
was  religious,  too."  The  other  girl  knew  the  story, 
one  of  the  Colonial  tales  which  are  not  forgotten  in 
the  villages — where  three  hundred  years  ago  seems 
very  close  still.  Jennifer,  too  was  of  the  old  stock. 

"Whatever  she  was,  preacher  in  Meeting  or  not,  you 
know  what  she  did.  They  whipped  her  at  the  cart's 
tail  for  being  a  Quaker,  and  stripped  her,  of  course, 
to  the  waist.  She  had  left  her  husband  and  children 
and  gone  up  through  the  New  England  towns  to  testify. 
And  the  head  Selectman  put  his  hand  on  her  and 
said  something  about  her  white  skin  and  her  fair 
shape.  She  was  only  twenty-six.  I  suppose  she  was 
like  this  Valla.  And  she  said  back  to  him,  very 
quietly,  'Neither  skin  nor  shape  shall  trouble  thee, 
thine  nor  another's,  God  bids  me  tell  thee,  before  the 
coming  First-Day.'  Then  they  tied  her  up  and 
whipped  her  out  of  the  town.  And  that  Saturday  the 
man's  plow-horses  went  wild  while  he  stood  in  front 
of  them,  and  trampled  him — and  the  sharp  plow- 
blade  went  over  him  afterward." 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       243 

"What  happened  then?"  asked  a  girl  who  did  not 
know  the  story. 

"Nothing.  When  they  were  through  whipping  her 
they  let  her  go.  She  came  back  home  and  went  on 
bringing  up  children  and  preaching  in  meeting  till 
she  died.  She  was  very  strong.  Jesse  Wynne  is  her 
great-great  grandson." 

"That  story  doesn't  prove  anything,"  said  Jennifer. 
"The  two  things  happened,  or  people  said  they  hap- 
pened. They  needn't  have  been  connected." 

Nancy  said  nothing  more.  She  was  remembering  the 
other  thing.  There  had  been  a  child,  a  little  girl  named 
Thelma  Robinson,  a  common  little  outlander,  who  had 
tormented  Valla  abominably  when  they  were  both 
schoolchildren.  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  No,  she  wouldn't  think 
of  poor  little  vulgar  Thelma,  nor  the  way  she  had  died 
— her  death  in  another  state,  the  next  month,  a  ghastly 
copy  of  the  way  she  had  tormented  Valla.  ...  It 
didn't  prove  anything.  She  loved  Valla,  as  every  one 
else  did.  And  yet.  .  .  .  She  would  not  have  liked  to 
hurt  Valla. 

Valla  seemed  a  person  whom  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  hurt.  She  went  through  her  share  of  the 
bridesmaids'  luncheons  and  teas  always  serenely,  and 
with  that  strange  look  as  if  everything  was  all  right — 
somewhere.  It  did  not  seem  an  embarrassment  for 
her  to  meet  Richard.  Her  way  with  him,  one  would 
have  almost  said,  was  pitying,  like  a  mother's  for  an 
unhappy  child.  The  situation  was  visibly  hard  for 
him.  The  others,  watching,  began  to  wonder  if  Mary's 


244       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

spell,  an  almost  purely  physical  one,  was  holding 
against  the  constant  sight  and  sound  of  Valla.  What- 
ever happened,  it  was  too  late  for  him  to  do  any- 
thing. People  were  sorry  for  him.  One  couldn't  help 
loving  Richard,  wayward  and  generous  and  impulse- 
swayed  boy  that  he  was. 

Mary  made  the  mistake,  finally,  of  attacking  him 
about  his  very  obvious  constraint  in  Valla's  presence, 
a  thing  she  should  have  expected,  one  would  have 
thought.  She  harried  and  tormented  him,  he  taking 
it  silently,  till  she  went  too  far,  flinging  at  him  con- 
temptuous words  about  Valla — her  lack  of  human 
feeling,  of  human  emotion.  It  was  the  string  she  had 
always  played  on.  This  time  it,  and  Richard's  fragile 
poise,  broke. 

"Valla  is  a  saint,"  he  cried  out  to  her.  "She  is  too 
high  for  either  of  us  to  speak  of." 

"She  never  kissed  you  of  her  own  accord.  She 
never  showed  you  human  love.  She  hasn't  any,"  Mary 
reiterated.  She  flung  herself  against  him,  with  the 
half -angry,  passionate  kisses  that  had  always  been  one 
of  her  strongest  weapons.  She  really  loved  Richard. 

Richard,  who  had  taken  Valla's  repression  for  cold- 
ness, looked  at  Mary,  bewildered. 

"She  said  she  loved  me  so  much  that  we  could 
never  belong  to  any  one  but  each  other,"  he  said  reluc- 
tantly. "She  said  that  when  I  broke  with  her.  .  .  . 
She — had  never  said  it  before.  Mary,  Mary!"  He 
clung  to  her,  as  men  cling  unheeding  to  what  loves 
them,  while  he  poured  out  his  feelings  to  her.  "I  see 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       245 

her  at  night  when  I  can't  sleep.  For  hours  every  day 
I  feel  her  presence  all  around  me.  I'm  wrapped  round 
by  her  strength,  her  power — her  love.  Mary — I  had 
to  tell  you.  She  knew  better  than  I  when  she  told  me, 
then,  that  I  belonged  to  her  too  much  ever  to  be  an- 
other woman's.  Mary — I'll  do  whatever  you  say." 

He  was  white  and  shuddering  with  the  effort  of  con- 
fession. Mary,  more  furious  than  ever,  wrenched  her- 
self from  him,  and  struck  back  with  a  cheap  flippancy. 

"Nothing  for  you  but  to  go  to  Utah,  if  that's  the 
way  you  feel  about  it.  I  suppose  I  might  have  known 
the  sort  you  were — if  you'd  break  with  one  you  would 
with  two.  No.  We'll  go  on  with  this  marriage.  I 
won't  be  shamed  before  all  these  virtuous  country 
people  who  sit  around  judging  me  all  the  time  with 
their  solemn  eyes.  We'll  get  divorced  afterwards  if 
it  doesn't  work."  Then  she  fell  to  sobbing,  in  his  arms 
once  more.  And  the  spell  of  her  ardent  physical  close- 
ness made  him  half  forget  again.  Only  marriage 
would  have  made  Valla  able  to  give  him  the  unlocked 
passion  Mary  could  toss  lightly  to  every  one.  Once 
freed,  she  had  immeasurably  more  to  give.  Mary's 
kissings  and  caressings  were  not  real — there  was  less 
behind.  And  this  was  beginning  to  face  Richard. 
But  he  was  very  gentle  and  loving  with  Mary  after- 
wards. He  had  spoiled  his  life  and  Valla's.  He 
wouldn't  spoil  Mary's.  And  so  the  girl  went  about, 
triumphant  once  more;  till  the  next  day  she  crossed 
Valla  on  the  street.  Before  Valla's  steady,  illumined 
smile  and  courteous  words  and  aura  of  content  some- 


246       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

how  the  triumph  evaporated.  It  was  only  natural 
self-control  and  hardness,  she  tried  to  tell  herself. 
But  somehow  the  whole  thing  was  beginning  to  get  her 
nerve.  She  could  not  believe  that  Valla  was,  as  she 
was,  honestly  forgiving.  She  did  not  believe  in  high 
standards,  having  none,  poor  child.  And  she  wished 
Andrey  Kerkoff  would  go  away,  or  come  and  have  it 
out  with  her,  or  something.  She'd  just  been  having  a 
good  time — why  did  they  all  take  it  so  hard?  .  .  .  She 
felt  tangled  in  something — she  did  not  know  what. 
She  was  frightened. 

Nevertheless  events  went  on.  They  included  the 
necessity  of  housing  Valla  with  Mary,  for  the  wedding 
was  to  be  at  the  house  of  Mary's  uncle,  a  hundred 
miles  from  the  cousin  Mary  had  lived  with  in  Valla's 
town.  Mary,  with  her  wedding  close,  drew  her  arrog- 
ant airs  more  firmly  about  her  and  showed  her  posses- 
sion of  Richard  perhaps  all  the  more  that  she  knew  she 
did  not  wholly  possess  him.  Valla's  serenity,  too, 
must  have  irked  her  badly.  A  triumph  loses  much  of 
its  excitement  if  the  vanquished  does  not  seem  to  know 
his  defeat. 

Still,  Mary  did  nothing  overt  until  the  night  before 
the  wedding  day.  Half  of  her  eight  bridesmaids  were 
from  Valla's  town,  the  other  half  here  in  her  old  home. 
It  may  have  occurred  even  to  her  that  with  the  three 
girls  who  were  visitors  a  solid  phalanx  about  Valla,  and 
of  consequence  in  the  place  where  she  was  to  spend  the 
rest  of  her  life,  she  would  do  well  to  be  courteous.  At 
all  events,  she  was — until,  blazing  with  excitement  at 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH        247 

the  end  of  the  dance  just  ended,  she  flashed  in  her 
sequinned  blue-green  dance-frock  through  the  door  of 
the  room  Valla  shared  with  Nancy  Whitall.  The  two 
girls  were  getting  ready  for  bed,  Nancy  stooping  to 
unstrap  the  gold  ribbons  that  had  laced  her  slippers  to 
her  knees,  and  Valla  weaving  her  hair  into  two  heavy 
corn-colored  braids  for  the  night.  There  had  been  no 
room  for  maids. 

"Anybody  got  a  pair  of  scissors?"  Mary  demanded. 
"I've  lost—" 

She  stopped  short.  Her  eye  had  fallen  on  the  two 
little  images,  clumsy,  grotesque,  and  yet  somehow  not 
laughable,  thick-lipped,  sullen-faced,  carved  in  their 
time-aged  worm-eaten  wood,  with  a  faint  gilt  still 
showing  on  their  chess-queen  crowns,  and  a  faint  dull 
blue  still  making  half  their  little  ill-carved  bodies  more 
sinister.  They  stared  straight  ahead,  hands  clenched 
apart  behind  them  over  some  hidden  thing.  They 
were  set  on  the  small  table  by  Valla's  bed,  to  be  near 
her,  as  they  had  been  near  her  ever  since  her  lover  gave 
them  to  her. 

"What  hideous,  adorable  little  horrors!"  she  said. 
"Are  they  a  present  I've  missed?  Oh,  I'm  crazy  over 
them!"  " 

Valla  smiled  up  at  her  with  her  steady  serenity, 
going  on  with  the  braiding  of  her  yellow  hair. 

"No.  They  are  mine.  I  am  fond  of  them  because 
they  are  the  last  gift  Richard  made  me." 

She  spoke  as  if  Richard  were  some  one  dearly  loved, 
and  dead. 


248       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

"It  was  ghastly,  somehow,  hearing  her  talk  straight 
out,  nakedly,  like  that.  Yet  it  was  wonderful,  too.  It 
was  like  hearing  one  of  Shakespeare's  women/'  Nancy 
said  afterward.  Nancy  could  never  make  sufficient 
allowance  for  the  terrific  simplicity  and  frankness  of 
the  Friend.  Yet  there  was  more  to  it  than  that.  Per- 
haps Nancy  was  right.  There  was  something  epic, 
Shakespearian,  in  the  way  Valla  fronted  her  little 
arrogant  rival.  It  must  have  shaken  Mary,  because 
she  essayed  insolence  in  answer,  and  that  was  always  a 
sign  that  she  was  fretted  or  angry. 

"I  don't  see  what  you  want  them  for  when  you 
haven't  Richard.  I'm  crazy  over  them.  Come  on, 
give  them  to  me  for  a  wedding  present." 

Valla's  steady  fingers  went  on  with  their  weaving  as 
she  answered,  still  serenely. 

"You  must  have  them,  if  you  want  them.  But  do  you 
think  you  are  wise?  They  may  not  like  another 
mistress." 

Mary  laughed.     "I'll  risk  that.     May  I,  really?" 

Valla  made  a  gesture  toward  them.  She  did  not 
touch  them.  And  Mary  actually  swept  them  up.  She 
turned  at  the  door,  a  glittering  little  figure,  waved  them 
at  Valla  with  what  seemed  to  the  angry  Nancy  a  ges- 
ture of  triumph,  and  was  gone  pattering  down  the 
passage,  laughing  in  the  childish  way  which  covered 
so  many  of  her  unpardonablenesses. 

Valla  sat  still  on  the  bed,  mechanically  braiding  her 
hair.  Nancy  looked  over  at  her,  presently,  frightened 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH        249 

at  her  stillness.  The  finished  plait  had  slipped  from 
her  fingers,  and  her  face  was  drawn,  convulsed.  The 
uncanny  air  of  power  and  joy  and  serenity  had  fallen 
from  her  as  if  it  had  been  only  a  veil  she  was  wrapped 
in.  Nancy,  who  had  known  and  loved  her  always,  ran 
to  her  and  caught  her  in  her  arms,  and  Valla's  head 
fell  forward  on  her  friend's  shoulder.  She  began  to 
sob  helplessly,  heartbrokenly,  like  any  forsaken  and 
insulted  girl.  She  clung  to  Nancy.  "I  can't  bear  it — 
I  can't  bear  it!"  she  wept.  "Oh,  Nancy,  how  have  I 
ever  gone  through  it?  Why  did  I  ever  say  I  would 
come  here  and  be  their  bridesmaid?  He  is  mine,  he's 
mine,  and  I  must  stand  there  to-morrow  and  see  him 
married  to  another  woman.  I  can't — I  shan't  do  it. 
I  will  go  away.  I'll  go  home.  Nancy,  Nancy,  it's 
killing  me — it's  all  I  cared  for  in  the  world,  being  Rich- 
ard's. Nancy — " 

She  clutched  Nancy  more  convulsively.  She  was 
sobbing  so  that  she  could  not  speak.  She  seemed 
broken  to  pieces.  Presently  she  caught  at  a  little  more 
control,  and  began  speaking  brokenly  again. 

"It's  real— I  don't  believe  I've  let  myself  think  it 
was  true  till  now — I've  gone  on  like  somebody  in  a 
dream,  or  drugged — I  thought  it  was  the  grace  of  God, 
or  pride,  or  self-control — but  now  I  know  it's  real  that 
he's  gone  from  me — it's  real!  ...  It  was  the  taking 
of  the  last  things  he  gave  me,  the  last  things  I  had  to 
look  and  love  because  his  hands  had  touched  them.  .  .  . 
I  gave  back  all  the  rings,  everything,  even  the  last  little 


250       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

ring  he  gave  me — oh,  oh,  it  wasn't  worth  anything,  she 
wouldn't  have  cared.  .  .  ."  The  sobs  silenced  her 
again.  Nancy  could  only  sit  holding  her,  and  feeling 
the  heavy  sobs  shake  her  uncontrollably.  She  wished 
she  could  kill  Mary  and  Richard.  Valla  was  so 
splendid,  so  perfect,  and  this  little  Mary  was  such  a 
worthless,  stupidly  brutal  little  person,  and  yet  it  was 
she  who  had  shattered  Valla  so  that  she  could  only 
sob  here,  broken  and  helpless,  stripped  of  even  her 
pride. 

"I'm  sorry,  Nancy,"  she  said  finally,  with  the  remem- 
brance of  others  that  was  natural  to  her.  "I've  kept 
you  awake  too  long.  Go  to  bed  now.  I'll  be  all 
right." 

Nancy  kissed  her  and  went.  But  for  the  hour  that  she 
lay  awake,  heartily  hating  the  bride  and  bridegroom, 
she  could  hear  Valla's  weeping,  softly  in  the  bed  near 
her. 

It  seemed  to  Nancy  that  she  had  but  just  gone  to 
sleep,  but  she  had  really  slept  over  an  hour.  She  had 
been  dreaming  of  armies,  hordes  of  strangely  clad, 
flying  people,  who  screamed  as  they  fled  before 
helmeted  men  and  women  on  great  white  horses.  She 
was  wakened  still  hearing  the  echoes  of  the  broken 
scream.  She  sat  up  in  the  dark,  still  shaken.  There 
was  a  rush  of  frightened  feet  outside  her  door.  .  .  . 
That  had  been  the  reason  she  had  dreamed.  She 
sprang  up  and  ran  out,  scarcely  waiting  to  wrap  a 
kimono  around  her.  There  was  an  unacknowledged 
terror  in  her  heart  as  she  passed  Valla's  empty  bed. . . . 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH        251 

The  scream  had  not  been  Valla's  voice.  .  .  .  She  found 
some  of  the  other  girls  in  the  hall.  She  clutched 
Jennifer. 

"What  was  it — oh,  what  was  it?" 

Jennifer  looked  at  her  strangely  as  she  answered 
under  her  breath. 

"Something  dreadful  has  happened  in  Mary's  room. 
They  won't  let  us  in." 

Nancy's  heart  seemed  to  turn  over  in  her  bosom. 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  always  known  what  had  happened 
in  Mary's  room,  and  at  the  same  time  as  if  she  would 
never  know.  She  ran  down  the  corridor,  and  pushed 
her  way  through  the  crowding,  half -dressed  girls  and 
men  with  hysterical  strength,  flinging  herself  against 
the  dreadful  shut  door  and  entering,  as  some  one — 
some  unimportant  person — was  coming  out. 

Mary's  little  face,  white  as  she  had  never  seen  it 
in  life,  flung  back  on  her  pillow.  That  was  the  first 
thing  she  saw.  Mary's  aunt,  crying  with  her  head  on 
the  counterpane.  .  .  .  No,  no!  People  didn't  have 
great  red  stains  over  their  hearts — not  except  in 
murder  cases  in  newspapers.  Not  really,  ever.  It 
couldn't  be  little  impudent,  arrogant  Mary,  lying  there, 
irrevocably,  solemnly  dead.  And  Valla — why  was 
Valla  standing  so  still  at  the  bed's  foot,  so  close  to  the 
dead  girl?  Nancy  turned  in  bewilderment  to  the  only 
other  familiar  face. 

"Richard,"  she  whispered,  "was  it  because  of  the 
little  Queens  of  Death?" 


252       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

Richard  turned  his  haggard  face  to  her.  "Yes,"  he 
said. 

Valla  stood  on,  still  and  pale,  never  taking  her  eyes 
from  Mary. 

And  then,  when  Nancy  felt  that  another  turn  of  the 
screw  would  drive  her  wild,  she  heard  a  new  voice. 

"It  was  the  Little  Queens  of  Death,"  said  Andrey 
KerkofPs  accented  voice  shrilly,  from  where  he  stood 
in  the  shadow,  held  by  two  of  the  men.  "I  did  not 
want  to  do  it.  I  had  to — I  had  to !  I  was  sent  by  the 
Little  Queens  of  Death,  and  the  mistress  they  obeyed. 
They  have  drunk  now,  and  they  will  not  torment  me 
any  more." 

"He  was  insane,"  said  Richard's  shuddering  voice. 
"He  came  in  by  the  open  window  .  .  .  and  ...  we 
saw  him,  too  late.  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  go  on.  Nancy's  eyes  went  to  the  little 
table  by  Mary's  bedside,  following  his.  The  images  lay 
there,  tossed  down.  But  across  each  thick  mouth  was 
a  fresh  stain,  as  dolls  would  have  if  a  child  had 
pretended  to  give  them  a  drink.  .  .  . 

"They  are  mine,"  said  Valla  in  a  clear  expressionless 
voice.  "Richard  gave  them  to  me.  I  should  like  to 
have  them  back."  She  dropped  in  a  dead  faint  at  the 
bed's  foot. 

She  was  given  them  back  after  the  jury  was  through. 
Kerkoff  was  violently  insane,  and  apparently  always 
would  be.  The  alienists  said  that  his  delusion  of  being 
supernaturally  impelled  to  murder  his  faithless  sweet- 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       255 

heart  was  a  very  usual  thing.  They  gave  it  a  name. 
Defense  reaction,  they  called  it. 

Valla  took  Richard  back,  as  people  had  thought  she 
would.  His  attitude  of  worship  toward  her  was  almost 
pitiful.  He  seemed  to  feel  as  if  he  could  never  atone 
for  what  he  had  done.  She  was  just  the  same  serene, 
strong  Valla  she  had  always  been,  except  that  she  was 
more  frankly,  infinitely  loving. 

There  were  no  guests  when  Dr.  Blanton  married 
them.  Only  Nancy  Whitall  and  Valla's  parents.  Her 
mother  had  insisted,  though,  on  a  wedding-gown  and 
veil.  After  they  had  been  married  Valla  went  upstairs 
by  herself,  to  change  into  her  traveling  dress.  They 
were  to  drive  off  somewhere,  far,  far  off.  She  came 
down  presently,  in  her  dark  suit  and  hat,  to  where 
Richard  and  her  people  waited.  She  looked  at  them 
for  a  moment  with  a  puzzled,  strained  expression,  as  if 
there  was  something  she  was  trying  to  remember — then 
turned  to  the  right,  into  her  own  sitting-room,  across 
from  the  room  where  she  had  been  married.  Her 
mother,  who  had  seen  her  face,  caught  Nancy's  hand 
sharply  for  a  moment,  and  almost  uttered  a  cry.  But 
she  stood  still,  by  a  great  effort,  beside  the  men,  and  in 
a  short  time  Valla  came  out  again. 

"I  give  them  to  you  now,"  she  said  to  Dr.  Blanton. 

For  a  moment  she  had  the  old  strange  look.  Then 
she  was  flushed  and  brilliantly  smiling  again,  Valla  at 
her  most  vital  and  brilliant.  The  tension  broke,  and 
the  two  drove  off  among  light-hearted  good-bys. 

Valla  took  the  wheel  after  the  first  seventy-five  miles, 


254       THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH 

to  take  her  turn  at  driving.  Richard  looked  adoringly 
at  her  bare,  beautiful  hands,  and  then  spoke  idly. 

"Where  are  all  your  rings,  sweetheart?  I  thought 
you  said  you  would  put  all  I  gave  you  on  to  be  married 
in." 

Valla,  surprised,  looked  down  at  her  hands.  "I  had 
them  on  when  I  was  married.  I  remember  feeling 
them  hurt  when  you  pressed  my  hand.  ...  I  can't 
remember.  .  .  .  It's  strange.  .  .  .  Had  I  better  go 
back?"  She  looked  distressed.  She  hated  these 
lapses  of  memory.  She  had  not  had  one  now  for  a 
long  time. 

"No,  dear.  They're  somewhere  in  the  house — you 
took  them  off  to  wash  your  hands,  likely.  Your  mother 
will  find  them — they're  safe  enough." 

Her  mother,  going  with  Nancy  and  Dr.  Blanton  into 
Valla's  little  room  after  she  had  gone,  paused  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  and  clutched  Nancy's  hand  again. 
Neither  of  them  said  anything,  then  or  afterwards. 
Together  on  the  mantel,  as  they  had  always  been,  stood 
the  Little  Queens  of  Death.  Wrapped  around  their 
feet  like  a  votive  offering  was  the  orange-blossom 
wreath  from  Valla's  hair.  And  from  worm-eaten 
wooden  wrist  to  clumsy  wooden  shoulder  of  each  of 
them,  fitting  in  the  grooves  some  long-dead  slave  had 
carved  for  just  such  a  thing,  were  strung  her  lover's 
rings.  On  the  breast  of  each  of  them,  in  a  hollowed 
old  place  made  for  it,  a  diamond  earring  made  a  bosom- 
jewel.  Clumsy,  grotesque,  yet  somehow  not  laughable. 


THE  LITTLE  QUEENS  OF  DEATH       255 

with  gold  chains  wrapped  into  the  grooved  borders  of 
their  stiff  wooden  skirts,  jewel-braceleted,  jewel-belted, 
with  faint  stains  still  across  the  livid  blue  of  the  sullen 
faces  under  the  chess-queen  crowns,  they  looked  very 
content,  the  Little  Queens  of  Death. 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

As  he  stepped  slowly  from  the  Morgan  house  Dr. 
Blanton  was  repeating  something  which  might  have 
sounded  to  some  one  who  could  not  hear  the  words  like 
a  pious  invocation.  It  was  not,  however. 

"From  goblins  and  ghaisties,  and  nine-legged  beasties, 
And  things  which  go  Boomp  in  the  nicht, 
Good  Lord  deliver  us!" 

he  remarked,  pulling  the  drawstrings  of  his  felt  bag 
close  to  keep  himself  from  the  temptation  of  reading 
along  the  path.  He  was  smiling  a  little — he  had  been 
talking  to  an  elderly  lady  who  would  have  bored  him  a 
little  if  he  had  not  been  able  to  smile  at  her.  Then  the 
smile  faded  into  concern. 

"I  hope  the  poor  child  is  going  to  be  given  time  to 
get  over  it  by  that  impetuous  young  beau  of  hers,"  he 
muttered.  Her  aunt's  opposition  has  been  just  enough 
to  build  up  a  contrariness  that  is  going  to  "go  boomp 
in  the  night"  straight  against  Dirk  Conkling's  ideas. 
They're  all  pretty  firm,  or  that's  what  they  call  it,  the 
Conklings.  Old  Archdeacon  Conkling  and  the  Athana- 
sian  creed. .  .  ."  He  smiled  again  behind  his  little  gray 
beard,  and  fiddled  guiltily  with  the  strings  of  the  bag. 
Then  he  ran  straight  into  a  girl  and  a  man  who  were 

256 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  257 

coming  up  the  path  as  he  went  down.  ...  It  was 
Roderick  Conkling  and  his  sister  Esther,  whom  he  had 
thought  safe  at  Dirk's  own  parish-house,  in  the  middle 
of  a  reception  of  Dirk's  people,  for  their  young  clergy- 
man had  been  kept  overseas  till  the  last  possible 
moment,  and  had  just  come  back  to  them. 

The  Conklings  had  escaped  from  the  reception  as 
early  as  they  decently  could;  Dirk  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  make  another  effort  to  see  Lucia  Morgan. 

As  they  had  shut  the  door  of  the  parish  house  and 
turned  to  go  down  the  sweet-smelling,  wind-blown  main 
street  of  their  little  town,  Esther  Conkling  slipped  her 
arm  in  her  brother's  and  tried  to  turn  him  in  the 
opposite  direction  from  the  one  to  their  home. 

"Let's  go  the  longest  way,  Dirk,"  she  said  hurriedly 
and  lightly.  "It's  such  a  lovely  night,  and  you  must 
want  fresh  air  after  three  hours  of  being  welcomed 
home  by  your  loving  friends." 

Roderick  Conkling  stood  quite  immovable,  unheed- 
ing her  tremulous  attempt  at  flippancy.  Esther  might 
as  well  have  tried  to  move  an  iron  figure. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  don't  see  that  accursed  light  of 
Lucia's  every  night  in  the  world,  whether  I  pass  it  or 
not?"  he  demanded.  "Walking  under  it  doesn't  make 
any  difference.  I  know  it's  there." 

She  gave  up  with  a  little  sigh  of  pity,  and  an  "Oh, 
my  dear!"  of  sisterly  affection,  and  went  on  in  their 
original  road.  It  was  a  charming  old  town  with  wide, 
elm-shaded  streets.  After  France  it  must  have  seemed 
to  Dirk  Conkling  as  peaceful  and  lovely  as  Paradise. 


258  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

The  church  he  had  just  left  had  been  his  father's 
before  him;  and  its  people  had  held  its  rectorship  open 
to  him  while  he  was  away  in  the  army.  Big,  kindly, 
masculine,  fearless,  one  of  the  men  people  take  to 
instinctively,  with  a  hold  on  the  affection  and  respect  of 
his  people  such  as  few  clergymen  of  the  present  day 
have,  Dirk  Conkling  hadn't  known,  ever  in  his  life 
before,  what  it  was  to  have  an  absolutely  impassable 
barrier  rise  up  between  him  and  what  he  wanted  and 
thought  right  to  have  or  do.  His  father  before  him 
had  been,  as  he  was,  half  rector,  half  squire  of  the  little 
courteous  old  Southern  town.  To  a  good  and  domin- 
ant man  with  charm,  money,  and  a  certain  amount  of 
power  life  presents  itself  as  a  straight  and  simple  thing. 
And  the  light  in  Lucia  Morgan's  window  represented 
to  Dirk,  in  spite  of  his  year  on  the  battlefields,  the  first 
incomprehensible  horror  he  had  ever  faced. 

Esther  hurried  him  on,  chattering  as  fast  as  she 
could.  She  tried  to  make  him  forget  the  light;  but  it 
was  so  present  in  her  own  mind  that  it  would  have 
echoed  in  his  even  if  he  had  not  been  thinking  of  it; 
the  light  and  the  picture  they  knew  was  back  of  the 
light;  Lucia  Morgan's  slender  body  and  rapt,  exalted 
face,  bent  over  something  on  her  knees;  opposite  her 
the  heavier  bulk  and  coarse,  time-scarred  face  of  old 
Jen  Gracey,  rapt  and  avid  too.  Esther  had  seen  them 
so  the  last  night  she  had  been  admitted  to  the  house, 
before  Lucia  and  she  had  quarreled  over  what  Lucia 
called  Esther's  flippancy.  She  turned  her  head  aside 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  259 

with  a  sick  and  baffled  feeling;  and  felt  Dirk's  stoni- 
ness  again.  He  had  halted. 

"Whose  buggy  is  that,  tied  outside?"  he  asked. 

Esther  laughed  a  little.  "There  are  only  two  people 
in  a  radius  of  I  don't  know  how  many  miles  who  have 
buggies  any  more,"  she  said.  "It  must  be  either  old 
Mr.  Merriman  or  Doctor  Blanton."  She  came  up 
closer.  "It's  Dr.  Blanton's  Horatius,"  she  said,  strok- 
ing the  old  horse's  mild,  moth-eaten  white  face  with  a 
friend's  hand. 

"Why  will  she  let  him  in,  if  she  won't  me?"  said 
Dirk  with  a  spasm  of  jealousy.  "He's  as  much  a 
clergyman  as  I  am.  And  he  wouldn't  say  he  believed 
what  he  didn't  believe,  not  to  get  into  Heaven  itself. 
I  know  Uncle  Andrew.  He  may  wander  around  with 
his  nose  in  the  classics  and  the  reins  on  Horatius7 
neck,  but  once  you  make  him  realize  what  you're  talk- 
ing about — " 

"Uncle  Andrew's  an  old  man.  And  perhaps, — you 
know  people  are  harder  on  you,  the  more  they  care  for 
you.  Lucia  does  care  for  you,  Dirk.  I  believe  she'll 
get  over  this  and  be  all  right." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  her,  if  she  can  be  as  insane 
as  this,"  he  said,  with  the  harshness  of  pain. 

But  he  opened  the  gate,  and  his  sister  followed. 
Halfway  up  the  walk  they  saw  the  door  open,  and  old 
Dr.  Blanton  come  out.  He  wandered  down  the  path 
absently  hunting  in  his  black  felt  bag  for  something, 
and — which  was  no  more  than  they  expected — did  not 


260  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

see  the  Conklings  at  all.  Esther  caught  his  hand  as  it 
came  out  with  a  small,  fat  black  book  in  it. 

"I  don't  insist  on  your  speaking  to  me,  but  I  think 
you  might  to  Dirk,"  she  said.  "He's  been  away  long 
enough  to  be  looked  at  when  he  comes  home." 

"Dirk,  my  dear  boy!  You  can  scarcely  imagine 
what  pleasure  it  gives  me — here  is  something  I  really 
must  show  you.  It  is  a  black-letter  Vescelius  that  I 
have  borrowed  from  Mrs.  Barry.  I  suppose  I  shall 
return  it,  but  the  flesh — alas,  the  flesh  is  weak.  I 
should  very  much  like  to  commit  petit  larceny.  An 
old  man  like  me  should  be  permitted  to  steal  books; 
say  one  a  fortnight.  One  a  fortnight  would  not  be  ex- 
cessive, do  you  think?" 

Dirk  was  in  no  mood,  self -concentrated  as  he  was, 
for  old  Uncle  Andrew  Blanton's  mannered  and  leisurely 
pleasantries. 

"Uncle  Andrew,  why  does  she  let  you  in  when  she 
won't  let  me?  She  told  me  no  one  should  enter  her 
house  who  denied  the  existence  of  spirits.  She's  killing 
herself  with  that  hellish  board,  and  the  old  woman  who 
has  her  hypnotized." 

Dr.  Blanton  blinked  behind  his  double-lensed 
spectacles. 

"As  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  Dirk,  I  have  never 
found  anything  that  prevented  me  from  believing  in  all 
the  spirits  I  wanted  to,"  he  said.  "In  my  day,  you  see, 
we  were  more  apt  to  be  rebuked  for  believing  too  little 
than  too  much.  Fashion's  a  curious  thing.  Now  in 
Cotton  Mather's  day—" 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  261 

"Uncle  Andrew,  do  you  mean  that  you  believe  that 
old  woman  is  doing  her  good,  or  that  there's  anything  in 
it?" 

It  was  not  possible  to  hurry  Dr.  B  Ian  ton.  Perhaps 
he  knew  that  Dirk  needed  a  moment  to  get  hold  of 
himself  in;  perhaps  he  was  merely  talking  with  his 
usual  oblivious  enjoyment  of  his  own  conversation. 

"I  admit  I've  been  poaching,"  he  said.  "Mine's  the 
next  parish.  But  under  the  circumstances — " 

Dirk,  scarcely  courteous  in  his  impatience,  left  the 
old  man  with  a  muttered  apology  and  went  up  the 
steps. 

"I'm  going  in.  Come  with  me,  Ess,"  he  said  shortly. 
His  sister  looked  up  at  his  strained  face,  and  with  a 
quick  hand-clasp  for  their  old  friend  silently  followed 
him  up  the  walk.  As  they  stood  before  the  door  wait- 
ing to  be  let  in,  Esther  spoke  softly. 

"You  know  how  it  was,  dear,"  she  said.  "Lucia  is 
so  gentle,  so  dependent  on  people  to  love  her;  and  there 
wasn't  anybody.  Whey  they  both  went  at  once  that 
way — think,  with  her  father  and  mother  dead  inside 
two  weeks,  and  you  in  France!  And  her  aunt  couldn't 
come  on  to  stay  with  her  for  months.  She  used  to 
walk  the  floor  and  say,  'Oh,  if  I  could  only  speak  to 
mother  once!  If  she  could  only  tell  me  that  I  hadn't 
neglected  her  in  her  illness!  If  I  only  knew  it  wasn't 
my  fault!  .  .  .' " 

"That's  no  excuse,  Ess,"  he  said  with  the  harshness 
she  knew  meant  suffering.  "When  our  mother  died  we 
used  to  ask  ourselves  that.  It's  one  of  the  things 


262  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

everybody  does  when  they  lose  people  they  love.     But 
we  didn't  try  to  drag  her  back  from  Heaven." 

"We  were  stronger — "  Esther  began,  as  the  door  flew 
open  and  they  went  in. 

"This  is  Lucia's  aunt,  Mrs.  Barry/'  she  continued. 
•"This  is  my  brother,  Roderick,  Mrs.  Barry.  Lucia 
and  he  were  going  to  be  married,  you  know." 

She  was  a  tall,  tremulously  elegant  woman  in  too- 
picturesque  but  expensive  clothes,  faded  and  gentle. 

"I  know— I  know,"  she  fluttered.  "Oh,  Mr.  Con- 
kling,  I  did  all  I  could —  If  you  hadn't  written  her  that 
they  were  not  real — she  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  my 
poor  sister  Lucy  not  being  real — you  know  how  devoted 
she  was  to  her  mother." 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "But  I  haven't  seen  her  yet, 
Mrs.  Barry.  Mightn't  I  go  up?  She  forbade  me  to 
see  her,  and  for  a  week  I've  kept  away.  I  can't  any 
longer." 

There  was  a  boyish  appeal  in  his  voice  that  would 
have  won  a  stronger  woman  than  gentle,  ineffectual 
Lilian  Barry. 

"I  promised,"  she  hesitated,  "but — I  do  think  she 
isn't  fair  to  you.  Only — only  please  don't  be  rude  to 
them.  They  say  such  things  about  people  that  are 
.  .  .  And  I  don't  think  a  girl  brought  up  like  Lucia 
ought  to  associate  with  Mrs.  Gracey,  or  the  horrid 
people  that  were  her  friends  before  they  died.  .  .  ." 

Esther  stayed  to  listen  to  her  random,  plaintive  talk, 
but  Dirk  had  hurried  up  the  stairs  to  Lucia's  sitting- 
room.  She  followed  him  with  her  eyes  as  she  listened, 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  263* 

and  Mrs.  Barry  rambled  on.  "And  the  house  has  the 
most  dreadful  feel.  .  .  .  Lucia  says  that  by  and  by  it 
will  get  so  it's  easier  and  easier  for  Them  to  come.  It 
frightens  me  so — I  do  believe  in  atmospheres,  you 
know.  I  always  carry  a  candle  everywhere  now." 

As  Esther  followed  her  more  slowly  up  the  stair,  she 
was  conscious  indeed  that  the  old  house  had  an 
atmosphere  new  to  her.  It  had  always  had  a  friendly 
feel,  a  feel  of  contented  homelikeness,  from  the  time 
she  and  Lucia  played  hide-and-seek  up  and  down  its 
broad  stairs  when  they  were  children.  That  feeling 
was  gone.  In  its  stead  was  an  eeriness  and  blankness 
new  to  her,  though  it  was  scarcely  two  months  since  she 
had  walked  out  of  it,  furious  with  Lucia.  She  was  not 
angry  with  her  any  more — poor  little  Lucia,  seeking 
across  the  world's  boundaries  for  the  love  that  had 
always  sheltered  her!  But  she  said  a  little  prayer  as 
she  went  slowly  into  the  room  where  the  others  stood. 

It  had  been  the  playroom  in  their  childhood.  Lucia 
had  taken  it  for  her  especial  place  when  she  grew  older. 
It  had  been  full  of  pretty,  gay,  girlish  things — dance- 
programs,  woven  baskets,  batik  draperies;  traces  of  the 
handicrafts  Lucia  had  always  been  so  clever  about. 
They  were  all  swept  down  now.  Books  were  every- 
where, all  on  the  one  subject.  A  couple  of  the  titles 
caught  Esther's  eye  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway: 
But  I  am  not  Dead!  and  Revelations  from  My 
Child.  And  Lucia  herself,  with  the  wonderful  rapt 
light  on  her  face  that  Esther  remembered,  was  leaning 
back  in  her  low  chair.  Opposite  to  her,  with  her  hands 


264  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

on  the  little  heart-shaped  wooden  "traveler"  still,  lying 
on  its  lettered  board,  sat  sullenly  old  Jen  Gracey.  It 
was  she  who  was  talking,  as  if  she  were  the  mistress  of 
the  place,  and  not  pale,  ecstatic  Lucia.  She  was  a  full- 
bodied  woman  of  perhaps  sixty,  with  thick  black  hair 
scarcely  streaked  with  gray,  a  powerful  face,  harshly 
lined,  and  with  vivid  black  eyes.  Power  radiated  from 
her,  and  intensity  of  feeling.  She  was  poorly  dressed, 
and  carelessly,  and  the  broad,  strong  hand  resting  on 
the  " traveler'7  was  warped  and  knotted  and  black- 
nailed. 

"If  all  you  can  do,"  she  was  saying  in  a  deep,  harsh 
voice  to  Dirk,  "is  to  come  here  an'  slander  my  blessed 
boy  that  you  played  with  when  you  were  little,  an'  Mis7 
Morgan,  that  always  treated  you  like  her  own  children, 
you  better  git  out.  That's  what  I  say,  you  better  git 
out.  'Be  patient  with  him!'  They  says.  'Be  patient, 
he  ain't  seen  the  light  yit.'  But  I  think  it's  time  They 
quit  bein'  patient.  Malignin'  Mis'  Morgan  and  Myron, 
sayin'  they  ain't  real  I" 

It  was  Lucia  whom  Dirk  answered,  not  old  Jen 
Gracey. 

"Oh,  Lucia  darling  1"  he  said.  "Your  mother  is  in 
Heaven,  happy;  too  happy  to  come  back  and  push  that 
silly  piece  of  wood  over  its  board.  But  I  have  to  tell 
you  what  I  believe.  I  believe  that  there's  nothing 
behind  that  board  but  your  own  mind.  And  I  believe, 
with  your  delicate  organism,  that  you're  running  a  fear- 
ful chance  of  having  the  strain  snap  your  nerves; 
perhaps  even  do  something  to  your  mind.  Mrs.  Gracey 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  265 

is  strong  enough  to  stand  it.  You're  not.  Lucia, 
Lucia,  give  up  this  child's  play  and  come  with  me.  .  .  . 
Lucia!  You  haven't  any  right  to  give  me  up  because 
I  believe  one  thing  and  you  believe  another!  If  it's 
love  you  need,  you  know  you  have  all  mine!57 

Lucia  looked  at  him,  still  with  the  look  of  angelic 
happiness  on  her  face.  She  was  thinner  than  she  had 
been  and  Dirk  remembered  with  a  twist  of  the  knife 
in  his  heart  what  Esther  had  told  him;  that  Lucia 
scarcely  ate  or  slept  now. 

"Oh,  Dirk,  I  do  love  you!"  she  said.  "I  was  angry 
at  Esther  because  she  laughed  at  Mother  when  she  first 
came.  But  Mother  says  I  mustn't  be.  But  how  can  I 
marry  a  man  who  thinks  the  most  wonderful  thing  I 
ever  found — the  most  wonderful  revelation  the  world 
has  ever  known — is  untrue?  If  you  could  hear  what 
they  say.  .  .  .  Such  beautiful  things — " 

"Quick!  They've  come  again!"  interrupted  old 
Mrs.  Gracey  passionately.  "Put  yer  hands  on, 
Lushy!" 

Lucia's  white  hands  alighted  on  the  little  wooden 
thing  beside  Mrs.  Gracey's  strong  old  gnarled,  dirty 
ones. 

"Take  it  down,  Esther!"  she  said  breathlessly;  and 
Esther  found  herself  snatching  up  the  pad  and  pencil 
that  lay  ready  and  putting  down  letter  by  letter.  Dirk, 
caught  up  too  in  the  sudden  wave  of  emotion,  stood 
quiet. 

"M-y  b-o-y,"  the  thing  spelt,  and  Esther  took  down, 
then  more  swiftly,  "M-u-s-t  s-p-e-a-k  t-o-" 


266  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

"Yes?"  Mrs.  Gracey  interrupted  breathlessly. 
"Who  to?  Is  this  Mis'  Morgan?" 

The  pointer  raced  to  "no"  and  slid  back  again. 
"A-n-n-a-m-e-1-i-c-e-r-t-e-"  it  spelt,  and  Esther,  putting 
down  what  seemed  to  her  a  farrago  of  letters,  heard  her 
brother  gasp. 

"Stop  it!"  he  said  harshly.  And  she  remembered 
that  their  mother  had  never  been  willing  to  have  any 
one  know  what  her  second  name  was.  Even  her  child- 
ren had  not  known  it —  "a  ridiculous  name  out  of  a 
Restoration  play"  she  had  told  them.  It  was  one  of 
the  childish,  adorable  things  that  had  made  them  love 
her  more.  But  her  first  name  had  been  Anna.  .  .  . 
Anna  Melicerte? 

She  went  on  recording.  . .  .  "I-p-u-t-c-u-f-f-1-i-n-k — " 

"That  was  'cuff-link!'"  she  heard  old  Jen  Gracey 
say  in  her  avid  voice. 

".  .  .  i-n-t-e-a-r-v-a-s-e-d-a-y-I-p-a-s-s-e-d-o-v-e-r," 
it  spelt;  Esther  checked  it  off  into  words;  "in  tear-vase 
day  before  I  passed  over."  She  felt  an  awed  thrill. 
"R-o-d-d-y-h-a-s-m-a-t-e-t-h-i-s-i-s-f-o-r-p-r-o-o-f  .  .  ." 

"Stop  it!  For  Heaven's  sake,  stop  it!"  she  heard 
Roderick  say  passionately.  "Make  the  devilish  thing 
stop!" 

But  it  went  on  relentlessly,  and  Esther  kept  on 
taking  it  down;  "H-e-m-u-s-t-b-e-1-i-e-v-e-l-o-v-e-m-u-n- 
n-i-e— " 

The  traveler  raced  down  to  "good-by"  and  was  dead 
still.  Old  Jen  Gracey  leaned  back  in  her  chair  as  if 
exhausted,  and  Lucia  too,  looked  tired. 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  267 

"My,  that  was  a  strong  force! "  she  said.  "Your  ma 
must  have  spiritual  gifts.  .  .  ." 

Esther  felt  a  choking  in  her  throat.  .  .  .  "Munnie" — 
that  had  been  Roderick's  name  for  their  mother. 
Roddy,  she  had  always  called  him.  Still  it  did  not 
prove  anything  to  her.  She  looked,  still  shaken,  over 
at  her  brother.  He  was  white  and  tense  and  had  half 
turned  away  as  if  to  hide  his  face. 

"Oh,  Dirk,  wasn't  that  wonderfully  clear?"  she  heard 
Lucia's  sweet,  happy  voice  say.  "They  scarcely  ever 
get  it  as  clear  as  that  the  first  time  they  come.  Dirk, 
surely  you'll  believe  when  your  own  mother  asks  you 
.  .  .  'Look  in  the  tear-vase  .  .  .'  Was  there  a  tear- 
vase?" 

"You  know  there  was  a  tear- vase,"  he  said  almost 
accusingly. 

She  shook  her  head  smiling. 

"They  know  everything." 

He  had  himself  in  hand  by  now. 

"Mrs.  Gracey  used  to  clean  for  Mother." 

The  old  woman  started  up,  furious,  but  he  went  on 
unheeding. 

"Lucia,  for  God's  sake,  give  this  up.  If  what  the 
thing  said  proves  to  be  true,  it  only  confirms  me  in  my 
belief.  It  is  killing  you.  Give  it  up,  if  you  ever  loved 
me,  or  your  mother  or  your  father!  They  wouldn't 
want—" 

The  traveler,  under  the  strangely  paired  hands,  began 
again.  "W-e-k-n-o-w-a-n-d-b-l-e-s-s "  it  said. 

"You  see,"  said  Lucia  almost  gaily,  "they  know  and 


268  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

bless!  Why,  Dirk,  it's  like  having  them  back — with 
me!  Mother  tells  me  what  to  do  about  everything, 
and  Mrs.  Gracey's  son  tells  her.  They're  as  alive  as 
they  ever  were.  Close  1 " 

"It's  all  a  lie,"  said  Dirk  doggedly.  To  him  right 
and  wrong  were  black  and  white.  And  the  sight 
of  this  thing  gripping  his  Lucia  was  almost  driving  him 
mad. 

But  at  his  unguarded  word  she  flashed  up  again. 
She  was  so  thin  and  transparent  that  she  was  almost 
like  pure  light,  vivified  as  she  was  by  her  radiant 
happiness. 

"I  told  you  before  never  to  come  near  me!"  she  said. 
"When  I  saw  you  to-night  I  was  sorry  I'd  said  it. 
You  must  never  come  again — I  will  never  see  you  again 
— as  long  as  you  say  such  dreadful  things  of  my  own 
people.  I  know  now  I  was  wrong  to  have  you.  When 
you  can  tell  me  you  believe  you  can  come,  not  before. 
My  first  love  and  duty  belong  to  Them." 

"If  you  loved  me — "  he  began. 

"I  do  love  you,"  she  said,  serene  again.  "My  love 
may  be  the  means  of  helping  you  to  the  revelation. 
I'm  not  frightened  about  it.  They  say  you  will  believe 
soon.  They  always  know." 

"Come,  Dirk,"  whispered  Esther. 

He  followed  his  sister  out  hopelessly.  Mrs.  Barry 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  waiting  for  them. 

"Could  you  say  anything  that  would  make  her  give 
up  that  dreadful  woman?"  she  asked  eagerly. 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  269 

"Nothing  I  can  say  will  have  any  effect,  I'm  afraid," 
he  answered  her.  There  are  always  people  like  that, 
whom  you  must  answer  courteously  at  times  like  that. 

"But  what  do  you  really  believe?"  she  pursued.  "I 
suppose  as  a  clergyman  you  must.  ...  I  took  up 
'Scientific  Thought'  last  winter — a  course  of  lessons — 
and  they  said  you  mustn't  believe  in  evil  at  all.  ...  Of 
course.  .  .  ." 

He  gave  her  some  indecisive  answer,  he  never  re- 
membered what. 

He  swept  Esther  away.  They  gained  their  own  home 
with  no  more  said. 

"She  watched  you  out  of  sight,"  Esther  ventured  as 
they  went  in.  "I  saw  her  face  against  the  pane,  just 
as  we  left  the  gate.  I  think  it's  just  as  if  that  dreadful 
old  woman  had  bewitched  her.  .  .  Dirk,  shall  you 
look  in  the  tear-vase?  I  suppose  it  would  be  that  little 
earthen  slim  thing  in  Father's  old  study." 

He  nodded. 

"I've  seen  it  before,  Ess,"  he  said  heavily,  turning 
as  they  reached  the  study  door,  still  in  their  outdoor 
things.  "There  was  a  man  in  my  regiment  who  used  to 
do  it  with  a  planchette. . .  .  His  sweetheart,  poor  fellow, 
was  killed  in  a  train  accident  before  he  left.  He  had 
his  hands  on  it  every  minute  he  got  the  chance,  writing, 
writing,  writing — messages  from  her,  of  course.  He 
got  so  after  a  while  that  he  didn't  sleep  or  eat;  just  that 
same  wild,  happy  look  on  his  face  my  poor  Lucia  has. 
Finally  it  told  him  all  sorts  of  things  to  do.  Wicked 


270  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

things  some  of  them.  His  mind  went,  after  six  months 
of  it.  There's  nothing  that  adequately  explains  it  to 
my  mind." 

"The  room  seemed  thick  to-night/'  Esther  assented, 
shuddering.  "But  I  can't  go  that  far  with  you, 
Dirk.  .  .  ."  She  crossed  the  room  with  a  visible  effort, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  the  old  Roman  tear-vase.  "Even 
if  the  cuff-link  is  in  this  things — even  if  Mother's  middle 
name  was  Melicerte — telepathy  might  account  for  it 
all  ...  and  yet,  mightn't  there  be  something  else?" 

She  lifted  the  little  vase  as  she  spoke  and  reversed  it 
against  her  palm.  Something  tinkled  against  the 
earthenware  as  she  shook  it.  She  lifted  the  vase 
silently  and  held  out  her  hand  to  her  brother,  with  an 
initialed  gold  cuff-link  lying  on  the  palm. 

He  took  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  the  other  one." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  dumb  and  pallid. 

"Come,"  said  Esther  briskly  at  last.  "We'd  better 
go  to  bed.  Don't  give  up,  Dirk,  old  boy.  It's  just  a 
lady  under  enchantment.  You'll  free  her  all  right. 
Give  her  time." 

"I  must,  it  seems,"  he  said  ruefully.  Then,  as  they 
parted  for  the  night,  "Esther,  I'm  going  to  fight  this 
thing  in  the  village  if  it  means  my  eternal  ruination — 
which  it  doesn't.  It's  just  folly  and  deception — a  lying 
old  woman." 

He  wrote  to  Lucia;  he  telephoned  her  and  tried  again 
to  see  her.  It  was  of  no  avail  after  that.  He  was  notr 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  271 

admitted,  neither  he  nor  Esther.  Twice  he  crossed  old 
Jen  Gracey,  malignly  triumphant. 

"I'm  just  a  dreadful,  common  old  woman  that  tells 
lies,"  she  told  him,  facing  him  angrily.  "That's  what 
you  think.  An'  I'm  the  only  way  Lushy  Morgan  can 
git  to  talk  with  her  folks  that's  dead — that's  what  she 
thinks,  an'  it's  true.  An'  she's  the  only  person  I've  got 
in  the  world  to  love  an'  do  fer,  an'  s'long  as  she  wants 
me  to  help  her  I  shall,  an'  guard  her  from  such  as  you. 
The  Lord's  given  me  this  gift,  an'  it's  the  first  mite  o' 
comfort  I've  had  since  Myron  was  run  over  by  that 
truck.  I've  stopped  you  because  I  have  a  message  for 
you.  'Tell  Roddy  to  give  up  Lushy,'  your  mother  says. 
'She  has  another  mate  on  the  sperrit  plane.  She's  not 
for  you.  You're  sunk  in  darkness.  .  .  .'  " 

As  she  spoke  the  look  of  malignity  faded,  and  its 
place  was  taken  by  the  look  of  fierce  rapture  Dirk  had 
noticed  when  he  first  entered  Lucia's  sitting-room.  He 
began  to  be  almost  convinced  that  the  old  woman,  with 
her  strength  and  force  of  passion,  and  her  violent  per- 
sonality, believed  in  herself  and  her  powers  as  sincerely 
as  Lucia  did.  She  had  power  of  some  sort.  She 
moved  him  while  she  spoke. 

He  answered  her  briefly  and  moved  on,  raging  in- 
wardly. The  old  woman,  it  was  clear,  had  developed 
a  fierce  devotion  to  Lucia;  a  devotion  that  was  so 
jealous  as  to  wish  to  exclude  every  one  else. 

"Her  subconscious  self  apparently  does  more  of  the 
messages  than  Lucia's  does,"  was  his  comment  to  his 


272  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

sister  when  he  told  her  of  his  encounter.    "I'm  afraid 
she's  getting  a  terrible  influence  over  Lucia." 

"It  isn't  her  subconscious  self.  She's  a  deliberately 
bad  woman,  inventing  all  this  for  the  sake  of  a  hold  on 
Lucia.  But  I  admit  I  am  beginning  to  understand  why 
men  felt  like  burning  witches.  .  .  ." 

"My  poor  boy!"  said  Esther  tenderly.  "Isn't  there 
any  way  of  rescuing  Lucia?" 

"You've  tried  to  see  her.  I've  tried.  That  poor  little 
fluttering  soul  of  an  aunt's  tried.  She's  in  a  sort  of 
infernal  Paradise.  .  .  .  Oh,  Esther,  that  horrible 
woman  is  gripping  her  soul  1 " 

"It  will  pass,"  said  Esther  in  her  loving  voice.  She 
was  by  no  means  sure  that  it  would,  but  her  brother's 
happiness  was  the  dearest  thing  on  earth  to  her,  and  she 
would  have  said  or  done  anything  to  insure  it. 

That  Sunday  Dirk  Conkling  preached  on  the  wave 
of  spiritism  that  was  sweeping  the  country.  He  used 
all  his  powers,  all  his  charm,  all  his  force  to  drive  home 
to  his  people  the  belief  he  held — that  the  thing  was  all 
a  lie.  He  had  never  preached  so  well.  Small  wonder 
— the  thing  he  preached  against  was  stripping  him  of 
his  happiness,  and,  he  and  Esther  both  feared,  threaten- 
ing the  woman  he  loved  with  the  loss  of  her  mind.  His 
people,  whether  they  listened  approvingly  or  disagree- 
ing with  him,  knowing  the  tragedy  that  lay  back  of  his 
sermon,  listened  tensely,  and  with  little  murmurs  of 
sympathy.  They  were  a  well-bred  folk  for  the  most; 
there  were  not  many  glances  cast  over  to  where  Lucia 
sat  in  her  soft  black  draperies,  with  the  look  of 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  273 

tremulous  rapture  on  her  soft  childish  face.  She  had 
her  aunt  on  one  side  of  her,  slimly  elegant  in  her 
expensive,  perfumed  satins.  On  the  other  side  old  Jen 
Gracey's  slovenly  black  Henrietta  and  shabby  old 
brown  coat  brushed  her  close.  At  one  point  in  the 
sermon  the  old  woman  leaned  forward,  her  lips  open; 
she  seemed  on  the  point  of  getting  up  and  making  a 
scene.  Lucia  laid  a  light  hand  over  hers  and  she  sank 
back  again.  There  was  a  sort  of  hushed  breath  that 
went  through  the  congregation.  They  knew  that  Dirk 
Conkling  was  giving  up  his  last  chance  of  marrying 
Lucia  Morgan  by  this  stand  of  his  for  conscience'  sake. 
After  the  service  was  over  Dirk  went,  according  to 
the  custom  still  kept  up  in  his  church,  to  stand  by  the 
door  and  speak  to  his  people  as  they  went  out.  Lucia 
hurried  down  the  aisle,  Mrs.  Gracey's  hand  on  her 
arm,  casting  a  wistful  glance  back  at  him.  She  was 
gone  before  he  could  reach  her.  He  felt  as  if  this  was 
all  a  dream,  for  the  moment;  one  of  those  terrible 
dreams  where  you  reach  for  the  beloved  and  he  or  she 
is  always  just  gone — just  unattainable.  If  he  could 
have  reached  her  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  could  have 
changed  her  back  to  the  girl  she  used  to  be,  before  this 
spell  was  on  her.  But  she  was  gone;  her  car  was  flying 
down  the  street  with  her  and  Mrs.  Gracey  in  it.  He 
stared  after  it,  forgetting  where  he  was.  His  people 
passed  him  mutely.  They  were  thrilled  by  the  drama 
of  it,  but  they  loved  him,  too,  and  even  those  who  did 
not  believe  as  he  believed,  those  who  were,  as  they 
believed,  reaching  their  dead  through  Lucia's  road, 


274  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

grieved  with  him,  and  seeing  that  silence  was  best  gave 
it  to  him  as  their  offering  of  affection. 

As  he  stood  straining  his  eyes  after  the  little  car,  he 
felt  a  hand  on  his  arm.  He  turned  and  saw  that  it  was 
Mrs.  Barry,  whom  he  had  forgotten.  In  the  presence 
of  old  Mrs.  Gracey's  strength  of  personality  one  did 
forget  Mrs.  Barry.  He  looked  at  her  in  surprise;  he 
had  supposed  that  she  would  have  gone  back  with  her 
niece.  She  drew  him  farther  within  the  empty  church 
vestibule.  Her  face  was  drawn  with  anxiety. 

"You're  the  only  person  I  knew  to  come  to,"  she  said. 
''I'm  nearly  frantic.  I  can't  stay  in  Lucia's  house  any 
longer,  the  way  Mrs.  Gracey  treats  me;  she's  a  horribly 
rude  old  creature.  And  poor  Lucia  says,  'But  Auntie, 
what  can  I  do?  She's  the  only  person  who  can  help  me 
work  the  board!'  She's  begged  me  not  to  go,  and  she 
tries  to  keep  old  Mrs.  Gracey  in  bounds;  but  I  simply 
can't  stand  the  woman.  It's  more  than  I  can  do,  even 
for  Lucia.  And  I  can't  make  the  board  go,  not  the 
least  bit  in  the  world.  The  ghosts  won't  come  if  I'm 
even  in  the  room.  Oh,  I  forgot — they  say  I  shouldn't 
call  them  ghosts.  .  .  .  It's  breaking  me  down — it's 
killing  me!  And  poor  Lucy's  child — though  I'm 
getting  almost  so  I  have  a  feeling  against  Lucy,  all  the 
things  she  says  to  Lucia  through  the  board.  ..." 

He  looked  at  her  with  haggard,  weary  eyes.  "How 
do  you  suppose  I  feel  about  it,  Mrs.  Barry?"  he  said. 
"There  is  nothing  I  can  do,  except  lie  to  Lucia;  and 
I've  put  myself  beyond  the  reach  of  that  temptation — 
for  it  was  a  temptation — deliberately,  to-day." 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  275 

"You're  like  me.  I've  done  everything  I  can/'  she 
said  flutteringly,  and  went  on.  The  words,  though  she 
did  not  mean  them  to,  stung.  He  did  not  like  to  think 
of  himself  as  being  as  helpless  as  poor  Mrs.  Barry;  and 
yet  he  was,  as  far  as  he  could  be. 

She  came  back  irresolutely,  as  if  she  still  hoped  for 
something. 

"Can't  you  do  something?"  she  asked  again.  "Oh,  I 
don't  know  what — something!  If  I  were  a  man  I'd  do 
something!  Come  and  see  her  again,  anyway.  I  do 
think  if  your  religion  is  worth  anything,  it  ought  to  be 
able  to  make  Lucia's  ghosts  stop.  .  .  .  She  doesn't  eat. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I'm  nearly  wild  about  it!" 

Esther,  standing  by,  shivered  a  little.  She  found 
that  she  secretly  dreaded  going  back  to  the  place  where 
that  strange  message  had  come  from  nowhere. 

When  Mrs.  Barry,  brightened  by  the  hope  Dirk  held 
out  to  her,  had  gone  her  fluttering  way,  he  turned  to  his 
sister. 

"She's  right,  Ess.  I've  been  a  coward.  .  .  .  Will  you 
go  there  to-night  with  me — after  service?" 

She  nodded. 

"But  how  will  you  get  in?  Mrs.  Barry,  I  suppose,  is 
going  back  to  her  own  house.  And  you  know,  Dirk, 
Lucia's  servants — " 

"I  know.  She  won't  let  me  in.  But  I  will  get  in, 
somehow." 

"They  let  Uncle  Andrew  Blanton  in,"  said  Esther 
consideringly.  "If  you  went  with  him — " 

"Yes.    And  somehow  the  thought  of  Uncle  Andrew 


276  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

is  a  comfort,  rambling  as  he  is."  He  smiled,  drawn 
though  his  face  was  with  distress.  "I  remember  once 
when  I  borrowed  a  jackknife  and  lost  it,  I  went  to  him 
— I  was  ten,  I  think — in  great  distress ;  and  he  told  me 
what  to  do  about  it.  The  queer  thing  is  that  I  don't 
remember  anything  about  his  advice,  except  that  it  was 
an  excellent  way  through  the  trouble." 

"If  this  were  only  a  lost  knife!"  said  his  sister. 
"But  at  any  rate,  surely  he  will  let  you  in." 

"It  will  be  a  comfort  to  have  some  one  to  go  to  about 
it,"  said  Dirk  wearily.  "One  gets  so  tired,  sometimes, 
of  being  grown  and  responsible.  I  think  I  should  like, 
to-night,  that  feeling  of  being  a  small  boy  again  that 
your  elders  give  you  sometimes." 

Dr.  Blanton  had  not  returned  when  they  arrived  at 
his  little  book-cluttered  rectory  in  the  next  town. 
They  waited  a  little  while  on  the  dark,  quiet  porch, 
before  he  drove  up,  hung  old  Horatius'  reins  around  the 
hitching  post,  and  stepped  stiffly  down  from  his  buggy, 
a  little  black  box  in  his  hand.  He  had  evidently  been 
somewhere  giving  communion  to  a  sick  person.  He 
was  old,  and  Sunday  is  a  hard  day  for  an  old  clergy- 
man; but  when  they  told  him  what  they  wanted  he  only 
stopped  to  put  the  little  communion  set  away,  and  the 
black  felt  bag  which  he  carried  everything  in,  from 
books  to  vestments,  and  got  in  with  them,  Esther  be- 
tween the  two  men  on  the  wide  seat. 

"How  did  you  come  to  think  of  asking  the  old  man 
to  let  you  in,  Dirk?"  asked  Uncle  Andrew  casually. 

"I  had  to  get  in,"  said  Dirk.    "I  think  it  was  some- 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  277 

thing  Mrs.  Barry  said.  I  keep  hearing  her  say  it 
She  said,  'If  your  religion  is  worth  anything,  it  ought 
to  be  able  to  make  Lucia's  ghosts  stop.'  But  oh, 
Uncle  Andrew, — isn't  there  anything  to  do?" 

Uncle  Andrew's  voice  changed  for  a  moment  from  its 
easy,  rambling  tone,  to  the  one  he  sometimes  used  when 
he  preached. 

"Dirk  Conkling,"  he  said,  "you're  a  minister  of  the 
gospel.  And  if  you  can't  think  of  anything  that  your 
religion  can  do  to  help  you  in  a  crisis,  I  can  only  advise 
you  to  pray  till  you  find  out  that  it  can." 

Dirk  was  silent  under  the  rebuke.  Esther  found  his 
hand  in  the  soft  darkness  and  held  it  tight.  After  a 
little  while,  he  answered  Dr.  Blanton. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  slowly. 

Uncle  Andrew  slipped  back  into  being  his  old  dis- 
cursive self  after  that;  even  when  the  two  young  people 
followed  him  up  the  porch  of  Lucia's  house,  he  made 
some  little  joke  about  housebreaking.  Esther  almost 
wished  she  had  not  suggested  asking  his  help.  After 
all,  older  people  had  such  a  gulf  fixed  between  them 
and  you.  He  did  not  realize,  evidently,  the  thing's 
tragic  seriousness.  .  .  .  And  yet  he  had  been  visiting 
Lucia;  he  must  have  seen  her  fading  away  under  the 
terrible  stress  of  old  Jen  Gracey's  practices.  To  still 
have  access  to  the  house  he  must  even  have  admitted 
something  of  the  reality  of  it  all. 

They  stood  back  in  the  shadows  as  the  maid  opened 
the  door  for  Dr.  Blanton;  and  followed  him  in,  in  face 
of  her  look  of  astonished  distress. 


278  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

But  Dr.  Blanton  spoke  to  her  in  a  whisper.  "You 
won't  get  into  trouble  for  this,-  Milly." 

Milly  stepped  aside  and  let  them  go  up  unannounced. 
Before  they  turned  to  climb  the  stair  old  Uncle  Andrew 
put  his  hand  on  Dirk's  shoulder  as  if  he  were  an  old 
soldier  exhorting  a  young  one  before  battle. 

"Roderick,"  the  old  man  said  in  a  voice  that,  though 
nearly  a  whisper,  was  still  as  imperative  as  a  shout, 
"have  you  been  thinking  over  what  Mrs.  Barry  said, 
and  praying?" 

Roderick  faced  him,  his  eyes  on  his. 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply,  and  no  more.  But  his  face 
was  the  face  of  a  man  going  into  battle  for  the  thing  he 
holds  most  dear. 

They  gained  Lucia's  room,  stepping  quietly.  All 
was  as  it  had  been  last  time;  the  gracious  order,  the 
numbers  of  books,  all  on  the  one  topic  nearest  Lucia's 
heart,  and  the  seated,  tensely-still  figures  of  Lucia  and 
old  Jen  Gracey  with  the  board  between  them,  beside 
the  window. 

"They're  comin'  good  to-night,"  Jen  Gracey  was 
saying  exultantly  as  they  stood  unseen  in  the  shadow 
outside  the  door.  "You're  gettin'  to  have  an  awful  lot 
of  Light,  Lushy,  almost  as  much  as  I  have.  I  wish  you 
et  more,  though."  She  glanced  up  at  Lucia,  more 
tenuous  and  transparent  than  ever,  with  an  expression 
of  uneasy  affection.  "I  dunno's  so  much  writin's  good 
fer  you.  I'm  tougher — it  don't  hurt  me.  S'pose  we 
stop  at  twelve  to-night?" 

Lucia  laughed  a  little  excited  trill  of  laughter. 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  279 

"No!  No  indeed!"  she  said.  "If  They  thought  it 
was  bad  for  me  They  wouldn't  come — you  know  that. 
.  .  .  And  I  do  want  to  ask  mother  if  she  thinks  Dirk 
mightn't  be  convinced.  .  .  .  The  only  time  I'm  un- 
happy is  when  I  think  about  Dirk.  You  don't  think 
ever — if  I  prayed  for  him,  and  They  prayed  for  him — " 

"Don't  you  think  about  Dirk  Conkling,"  Jen  broke  in 
jealously.  "You  know  what  Nonie's  always  telling 
you.  You  have  another  mate  on  the  sperrit  plane." 

A  little  spark  of  opposition  lit  in  Lucia's  wide  eyes. 

"It  might  have  been  a  spirit  pretending  to  be  Nonie" 
she  objected.  "You  know  some  of  the  books  say — " 

"It  wasn't.  It  was  Nonie"  Mrs.  Gracey  affirmed; 
and  then  Lucia  gave  a  little  cry  because  the  traveler 
was  beginning  to  move  under  their  hands. 

They  were  spelling  it  out  absorbedly  when  Dirk 
walked  straight  across  the  room,  and  kneeled  down  by 
Lucia,  putting  his  arms  around  her. 

"Lucia,"  he  said.  "I've  come  to  ask  you  once  more 
if  you  won't  give  up  this  thing  and  marry  me." 

She  rested  a  moment  in  his  arms  as  if  they  were  a 
haven  she  had  longed  for;  then  she  drew  herself  away. 

"I  can't  give  it  up,  Dirk,"  she  said  wistfully.  "It's 
my  religion;  and  you  think  it's  a  lie." 

Dr.  Blanton  came  out  of  the  shadows  and  spoke 
suddenly — to  Dirk,  not  to  Lucia. 

"Roderick,"  he  said,  and  the  easy  whimsicality  was 
all  out  of  his  voice,  "I  say  to  you  again  what  Mrs. 
Barry  said  to  you.  If  your  religion  is  worth  anything 
to  you  it  can  help  you  in  this  crisis.  If  you  believe  in 


280  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

a  living  God,  He  can  help  you  against  the  powers  and 
principalities  of  darkness — which  are  not  put  to  flight 
by  denying  that  they  exist." 

He  went  out  of  the  room. 

Esther,  watching,  was  reminded  of  the  bespelled  girls 
of  old  ballads,  whose  lovers  had  to  fight  for  them 
against  evil  elfin  things.  She  wondered  suddenly  if  there 
had  ever  been  reality  in  the  old  tales — reality  of  this 
sort.  Lucia's  slender  body  struggled  in  Dirk's  strong 
arms  like  a  wild  thing.  Suddenly  Dirk  spoke. 

"Lucia,  be  still  and  listen  to  me.  I  do  not  believe 
any  of  this  is  a  lie  any  longer.  What  he  said  is  true. 
There  is  a  living  God  and  He  will  help  me.  There  is  a 
reality  which  holds  you,  an  evil  reality.  Whether  it 
is  a  force  concentrated  around  that  old  woman,  or  some- 
thing speaking  through  her  from  outside,  I  do  not 
know.  But  it  wants  you  for  its  selfish,  cruel  pur- 
poses. Your  own  mother  would  never  wear  your  body 
out,  as  this  thing  is  wearing  it  out." 

The  old  woman  darted  at  him,  her  gnarled,  strong 
old  hands  pulling  at  his  arms  with  a  man's  strength. 

"You're  blasphemin'.  Don't  listen  to  him,  Lushy!" 
she  screamed.  "It's  your  mother!  It's  my  son, 
Myron!  He's  your  mate  on  the  sperrit  plane — he's 
told  me  so  on  the  board  twice  lately.  He'll  tell  you  so 
to-night  if  you  let  him! — Lushy! " 

Dirk's  arms  held  about  Lucia  like  iron,  and  the  old 
woman,  shaking  with  anger,  set  herself  desperately  to 
the  board  again,  putting  her  hands  on  the  traveler. 
Lucia,  from  Dirk's  embrace,  stretched  out  her  own 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  281 

hands  mechanically  and  laid  them  on  it  too,  and  Dirk 
did  not  stop  her. 

The  board  was  moving  again.  Esther  watched  it, 
sick  at  heart.  Dirk  did  not  move  from  his  kneeling 
position,  with  his  arms  around  Lucia.  His  sister  could 
see  his  face,  tense  and  resolved.  She  could  see,  too,  the 
pointer,  spelling  out  letter  by  letter,  flying  back  and 
forth  like  a  shuttle.  Mechanically  she  watched  it. 

"W-e-d-o-n-t-w-a-n-t-h-i-m,"  it  spelt.  "I-n-f-1-u- 
e-n-c-e-u-n-f-a-v-o-r-a-b-l-e-." 

So  far  she  had  watched  it  when  suddenly  she  took 
her  eyes  from  it,  and  fastened  them  on  Dirk.  He  had 
begun  to  pray  aloud,  clutching  Lucia  closely.  He  did 
not  move  a  finger,  yet  his  sister  got  a  sense  of  intense 
force  radiating  from  him — a  fighting  force  as  much  as 
if  he  had  been  using  physical  strength.  Lucia,  her 
hands,  beyond  his  embrace,  still  lying  on  the  "traveler," 
lay  back  lax  and  white,  neither  with  him  nor  against 
him.  The  "traveler"  had  stopped. 

"God,"  he  prayed,  "Thou  art  good.  This  thing  is 
evil.  Stop  it  for  me.  Give  me  back  my  girl.  These 
are  the  powers  of  evil.  Thou  art  above  them — Thou 
art  stronger  than  they.  God,  help  me  1 " 

He  did  not  pray  aloud  after  that,  but  Esther  could 
see  his  lips  moving,  and  feel  that  he  was  praying  with 
a  prayer  that  was  a  warfare;  the  simple  faith  that  had 
carried  him  through  his  year  of  physical  warfare  was 
bearing  him  now  through  what  she  could  feel  was  a 
bigger  fight — a  fight  of  mind  against  mind,  influence 
against  influence.  He  was  fighting  the  violent  old 


282  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

woman  at  the  other  side  of  the  board  for  the  possession 
of  Lucia  Morgan. 

Suddenly  the  "traveler"  began  moving  again,  very 
faintly.  Mrs.  Gracey  watched  it,  spelling  aloud. 

"Roddy"  it  began;  and  she  uttered  a  shrill  cry  of 
exultation. 

"Your  own  mother,  witnessin'  against  you! "  she  said. 

" — is  right"  it  went  on.  "You  are  not  strong  enough, 
Lucia" 

Esther  looked  at  Roderick.  He  was  as  still  as  be- 
fore; but  the  sweat  was  standing  out  on  his  forehead. 
He  looked  like  a  man  lifting  that  last  ounce  he  was 
capable  of.  Effort  was  written  all  over  him. 

"Give  it  up,  marry  Roddy" 

"No,  no!  That's  a  deceivin'  spirit!  It  ain't  sayin' 
that!"  shrieked  old  Jen  Gracey,  and  Esther  pounced 
on  her. 

"You  are  moving  the  thing  yourself"  she  accused 
her. 

"I  ain't!  I  ain't!"  she  screamed,  her  face  flooding 
with  a  dull  scarlet  of  anger. 

"Look,  Lucia!"  insisted  Esther.    "Look!" 

Lucia  and  Roderick,  but  still  moveless,  turned  their 
eyes  on  the  board.  The  old  woman  was  plainly  pull- 
ing the  "traveler"  away  from  the  direction  it  wished 
to  go. 

"It  says  'Don't  marry  Roddy.'  You  missed  the 
'Don't'!"  she  cried,  half  beside  herself.  She  had  lost 
all  self-control.  She  was  a  passionate  old  creature  by 
nature.  And  Lucia  could  see,  even  Lucia,  that  she  was 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  283 

fighting  the  "traveler"  —  making  it  write  by  sheer  force 
of  her  own  hands.  Lucia  sat  up,  her  face,  too,  flush- 
ing. She  could  feel  the  pull  away  from  her. 

"Mrs.  Gracey!"  she  panted.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Gracey/" 
There  was  tragic  reproach  in  her  tone. 

The  Gracey  woman  flung  down  the  board  and  took 
one  step  to  Lucia's  side,  trying  frantically  to  pull  Dirk 
away. 

"Oh,  darlin',  oh,  darlin',  I  didn't!  I  never  did!  It 
was  the  first  time  —  I  was  so  beside  myself  I  didn't 
know  what  I  was  doin'  —  "  she  pleaded  in  what  Esther 
could  see  was  real  anguish.  "Oh,  Lucia,  ain't  you  goin' 
to  believe  me?" 

But  Lucia  clung  closer  to  Dirk. 

"You  deceived  me  —  "  she  began  to  say,  and  fainted. 


"Don't  let  me  see  her!  Oh,  don't!"  Lucia  prayed 
them,  lying  on  her  couch,  still  clinging  to  Dirk  as  if 
he  was  the  only  real  thing  left  her  in  a  shattered 
world. 

"You  shan't,  dear,"  her  aunt  assured  her.  She 
looked  at  Dirk  as  if  he  only  could  keep  her  safe  from 
the  strong  power  of  the  old  woman;  who  was  down- 
stairs now,  praying  and  pleading  with  Esther  to  let 
her  see  Lucia  for  just  one  moment,  just  to  give  her 
one  more  chance  to  prove  that  she  was  honest. 

"You  shall  never  see  her  again,  if  I  can  prevent  it," 
he  said.  Lucia  leaned  her  fair  childish  head  against 


284  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

her  lover's  arm  with  a  satisfied  sigh,  and  then  shud- 
dered a  little  as  Esther  came  into  the  room. 

"It's  only  I,"  Esther  said.  She  was  very  white. 
She  beckoned  Dirk  over  to  her  and  spoke  in  a  low 
voice.  "Dirk,  the  poor  old  soul  is  nearly  crazy.  I  do 
believe  that  it's  the  first  time  she  has  cheated.  It 
was  a  battle,  you  know — your  force  against  hers — 
and  when  you  controlled  Lucia  so  that  the  'traveler' 
moved  to  speak  as  you  would  have  had  it  speak,  and 
Mrs.  Gracey  found  that  the  spirits,  as  she  believed, 
had  suddenly  turned  to  your  side,  she  was  desperate." 

"It  was  not  my  force  against  her  force.  It  was  the 
force  of  God  that  I  had  summoned  against  the  forces 
of  evil,"  he  said  sternly.  He,  too,  was  pale. 

His  sister  looked  at  him  strangely. 

"May  I  tell  her  that  Lucia  forgives  her?" 

"Tell  her  that  Lucia  forgives  her.  And  that  she  is 
never  to  speak  to  her  again." 

He  went  back  and  took  his  sweetheart  in  his  arms 
again,  as  if  to  hold  her  by  bodily  protection  from  the 
powers  of  evil  that  had  so  nearly  swept  her  from  him. 
As  Esther  went  out  she  looked  back — Dirk  had  sud- 
denly risen.  A  little  fire  burned  on  the  hearth. 

"Put  them  in,  Lucia,"  he  was  saying;  and  Lucia, 
smiling  a  little,  with  her  eyes  trustfully  on  her  lover's, 
was  laying  the  board  and  the  little  wooden  heart  on 
the  flame. 

Esther,  going  downstairs  with  the  message,  found 
old  Jen  Gracey  standing  at  the  door  with  Uncle  An- 
drew. He  was  smiling  a  little,  even,  and  the  old 


POWERS  OF  DARKNESS  285 

woman,  still  shaken,  was  staring  at  him  as  if  she  was 
hearing  something  wonderful  and  strange.  It  came 
to  Esther  that  perhaps  the  old  soul  had  not  had  much 
belief  or  consideration  in  her  life.  And  perhaps  this 
passion  for  lifting  her  son,  who  had  been  everything 
in  the  world  to  her,  by  her  fantastic  spirit-betrothal 
to  Lucia,  was  forgivable  after  all  ...  and  yet  even 
Esther  could  not  but  feel  that  there  had  been  more 
in  the  room  than  themselves.  Had  it  been  merely 
clash  of  personality  against  personality,  or  ...  what? 
She  shivered  as  she  came  to  them. 

"Yes,  I'll  come  see  you  to-morrow  night,"  Jen  said 
in  a  strangely  gentle  voice.  "I — I  didn't  go  to  hurt 
her." 

"I  know  you  didn't.  You  loved  her,"  said  Uncle 
Andrew.  "But  you  might  have  been  letting  loose 
things  on  her  that  you  couldn't  stop,  you  know.  We'll 
talk  about  it  to-morrow." 

She  pulled  her  shawl  close  and  went  out,  before 
Lucia  could  deliver  the  message  from  Dirk. 

Uncle  Andrew  smiled  at  her. 

"Things  straightened  out?"  he  said.  "Well,  sup- 
pose you  and  I  wend  our  homeward  way,  like  the 
plowman  of  whom  so  little  is  heard  nowadays.  They 
won't  want  us  for  some  little  space  of  time." 

They  went  out  to  the  old  buggy  and  its  patient 
horse,  and  drove  homeward.  When  you  were  out 
with  Uncle  Andrew  you  could  always  be  sure  of  hear- 
ing a  great  many  quotations.  To-night  he  finished 
most  of  Gray's  Elegy  before  they  reached  Dirk's  house. 


286  POWERS  OF  DARKNESS 

But  just  before  Esther  got  out,  Uncle  Andrew  said 
musingly: 

"God  is  our  refuge  and  our  strength — an  ever  pres- 
ent help  in  time  of  trouble.  Queer  most  people  don't 
do  anything  about  that.  You  know,  Essie,  it's  really 
so.  ...  Think  they'll  let  me  marry  them?'* 


THE  END 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


100m-8,'65(F6282s8)2373 


Tnnrn 


3  2106  00215 5312 


